Quills in the Wild
Squeezing out of the blue
on tears of impatient clouds,
riding in on the wind,
methodical words broken up
into carefree lines and shapes,
floating down from the sky,
landing on where
no man has ever been,
virgin forests and virgin jungles,
Nature dressed up in her rags,
living in the fields of the grizzles,
the mouths of the beast,
the home of the wild,
the land of the free,
the place where poetry thrives,
where it inhales the raw air,
flavors it with exotic spices,
lets it marinate upon its tongue,
grow wings and fly with the eagles,
where it loses its inhibitions,
where it tears its clothing off
and runs with the rivers
where it floats up into the air,
where it dances with the wind
and loses its identity in the
labyrinth of the clouds,
the network of the skies,
a word with no name
but a sigh,
an intelligence without a home
but a place in the universe,
from a wandering quill
anointed by the
spirit of the forest.
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