Path Of Seeds

O, Lady of the breath,
selfish and in control

you decide the path of seeds
you carry and drop in my grove.

Landscape architect place
an acorn here, a daisy here,
chestnut over there. No negotiation.

Blow my intricate clocks into half spheres,
my Sycamore immigrants spin
through your gusts.

Shoot moss into these worn mortared walls.
Broadcast grass between thess carefully
laid pavements.

With you I have no choice
you deliver into me
whatever you hold.

I welcome your unexpected gifts.

A Dawn Chorus

O, Lady of the Breath.
how to arc in your air?

A dozen or more tiny caves
sing you into the world

from the trillbudded barkskin
volume and delivery

a root that connects with
its origin tree,

broadcasts to my ears,
territory songs,

and chat up lines, a Saturday
night on the town played out

on a morning before the wormshop,
home repair, teach bairns how to fly.

My Shape

of saying took time
for us to practice.

for me to know how much
of you is needed for each word,

or phrase, how I must shape
Your entry and exit for you

To carry my meaning out
clearly and audibly and your

vibrations welcomed in the ears
of others. At a start without confidence,

I manhandled your curves, mumbled
and fumbled our airy pattern,

apprentice to your greater experience
that gently taught me not to be so rough,

to be considerate of my delivery, conduct
a gentle assault on my hearers.

© 2017, Paul Brookes

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