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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

A clear and fragile centering
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.

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