The Flautist

Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song entice the plum-pursed lips gripping for the galaxies confined to sullen sips. A cup-eared chorus hollers back to smooth the clods of clay molded by the penchant of the potters who will play. A honey-suckle sound escapes, to which the bees reply, “Had only we a gentry cup our lot…

The Park

Northern pintails brushing blue, the crescendo of their wings, weaving windsong into words some say that, “Up jumped spring.”   The rising sun, through veils of dun, atop a pool of glass with flitting beams, does bend the streams to cast a liquid brass.   Children fashion cradles, and white whiskers out of string, and…