The miracle of birth when words do sing.
Their hungry mouths are round from out their shell.
Stout voices from the nest may try their wings;
newborns and rocking horses may rebel.
“I am not made of steel”, the riddle plays:
“A magic song is soft and full of sighs”.
My bonnet, as it tilts and then sashays,
I grab the golden ring before it flies.
And as his nostrils flare; we gallop round.
Calliope’d, his pipes now spin and turn.
My pen becomes a dagger ‘fore he bounds;
escapes the inner critic ‘fore he burns.
For love of form, my freedom cannot scorn
so from the heart a sonnet, sure, is borne.