'Tis oft' I pen my words
like wings of little birds
to see them lift and sing
in melody of spring,
in poesy, pure as flowers.
'Tis how I spend the hours.
They fly away, the hours,
awhirl on wings of words
that rest upon the flowers.
I'm guilty as the birds
of making light of spring,
but oh, how sweet they sing!
Of green and pink, they sing;
they sing through fleeting hours
that open wide as spring
to close like parting words,
like folding wings of birds;
to open, bright as flowers.
Attuned amid the flowers,
I listen as they sing -
not trilling like the birds,
but silent like the hours -
no melody nor words
can speak their voice of spring.
Of sound and color, spring:
of rolling thunder, flowers,
of poets weaving words
and hoping some will sing
to fill with bliss the hours
that fly as flitting birds,
But oh, to fly as birds,
to waft the scent of spring;
to dream away the hours
amid the fragrant flowers!
Let all of nature sing
of beauty, high on words!
Ascend, wee words, as free as birds!
Sestina, sing of sprightly spring
when fine as flowers flow the hours!
March 2010
(Sestina No. 8)
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Christina Poetry 
