Just a Note of Nasturtium

And so it goes, again…

I get drunk on phonics; never too hooked, but chaste in my fair-weather commitment.

Syrup spellings of stronger songs, steeped in green desire, emerald dreams, ‘scapes and streams, verdant and free from flies.

(Nothing to swat from the eyes.)

Fun!

That fair maiden, the scorned crone in my soul, the priestess and goddess bring pearls out of stores as America cloaks my conceit.

But where is she now? And where is my scribe?

It’s stuck, lock and key, iron ribs around a cheap chest.

So I open the flow of citrus song that pours from pen to page; ruby in sun juicing the mist like a halo above glass waves.

Now moon mamas howl, screened under zest and rain reinvents my cells; morphology flickers, orange fields snicker, poppies a flowery gaze:

decisive, inscribing, and all that I need is some vitamin see, you say?