In the sprinkle not so longlong ago, amid the green
words that mutter dew, a birdle was born
of some twists of the sun.
(It is right to tell you that men once said
‘a birdle is a birdle born from hurdle burden’.
It is right to tell you I do not agree.)
‘t Was a cry of the woods, a giggle to the rock - so light,
feathers elevatered to pop the young birdle straight from a sand
onto the land. And the birdle laughed.
(It is sad to tell that laughing birdles now are extincted
to children’s inexplicabilities and sometimes to that
one rose that rises in the roses.)
As it is my gift of gifts, it tips its toes in
the sprinkle and ripples it’s image (it does that),
with a titter it flaps its silkysteel winkle and brushes into the air
(much like my speakerey, my eagery stare).
Its path is a longsong on a music-box, (your present,
as I rest my heavy knobby head on your
chest) bumping criss-cross cylinder flight (I make
up these birdles too much butbutbut the world has
a way of tasting and wasting them on the wind).
My birdle’s trembelings as it travels. My birdle’s
when all that outthere is not there. My birdle’s
the bliss, the prefers of me. My birdle’s the silence
I avoid sometimes when I crave for the words
of your love. That’s my birdle.
Born from some twists of the sun.