The Lightning Forge

1

The cypress elm spreads it's sombre bowers
across the lawn. Beneath it's dark warm heart
pheasants court, compete, complete pursuit. Oh my!
The black squirrel hangs by it's toes,
thumbs it's nose. Handled carefully by the quiet
fantasists, fissle material such are dreams
shovel into furnaces, ignite, fire.
Often more Frankenfurter than Frankenstein
but, once in a while, an eager blackbird
attacks the mirror, bees come down the chimney,
we fizz and spark in a quiet obsessive way:
a little less mole-hill than wasps' nest,
more swallow dart and dragonfly pause
on the mock orange tip
than continuing to dilute the hours slowly;
yet, my lays are trammelled in the rare snow.
I wait here in the shadow of the brioche shrub
honing words for the darting breeze of a summer's day.

2

A munkjack emerges fully formed
from beneath the chestnut's dark warm lobes
a black squirrel counts bits, nibbles kernels
the quiet fantasists obsessively ladle dreams
into furnaces, bronze sparks spit, hiss, sigh
less wasps nest than mole hill
more dragonfly pause than swallow dart
we peer at Frankenfurter in the instant quiet
my hours continue to dilute slowly
an angry black-bird beats a car mirror
bees come down the chimney
a scream, a pigeon struggles
in the deep embrace of the cypress elm.