With the scoop of a spoon, that part of my brain

taken with and attuned to the art of mundane –

was lopped in a cup and mixed with a stain

then used to brush out a full moon.

With the pare of a knife, a snip and a splinter

taken and stored away from the winter.

This part of my heart, in the cold seems to hinder

a place for the raven and wren.

Then using a fork, stabbing with tines

into the tongue that won’t speak thorough lines.

Truth carries in winds of the spoken, and pines

to murmur its thanks to the muse.

These wares for the poet, taken in kind

from a painting of moonlight and bits of the mind,

They offer a glimpse of the art that I find

inside and outside a resonant notion.