Shall I compare you to a magpie’s nest
of thorn and twine, of wool and weathered thread?
A feather from a starling’s speckled breast,
and a receipt the winter left for dead,

a hollow sound lined with a tuft of hare,
and that stray syllable snagged on the brambles –
I’m drawn to all things thought beyond repair
and drop them in here – in veritable shambles.

You – unpopped kernel lodged between my teeth,
a tune still looking for a pair of lungs,
the ghost of pine inhabiting the wreath –
your sweetest note’s the one that stayed unsung.

Rampant with rhymes and roots that learned to roam –
a place the mind could haunt, or call a home.