FOUR LEGGED THINGS
A rhyme a day
Keeps the shrink away.
A time to play
With words
Keeps this herd
Of pawing beasts at bay
Within my soul.
Standing at the brink, I say
The magic sounds
That make me whole.
Mutterings cajole
Four legged things
Deep down inside of me
To mark their time
Amicably.
A clear and fragile centering
Occurs:
The Voice that stirs
A pure white winged thing
To fly.
It blurs the pain and lets
The injured day lie
Down to rest.
It gives my cynic’s head
A long lost mother’s breast
To lean upon.