After a considerable absence, a return to the Magpie Tales
A poem has gone missing.
The turgid stanzas of a fool who had already wasted half a lifetime waiting on a phone call from the dead.
Poems are but rarefied ephemera, part of the legion of symphonies of soap bubbles and wedding bouquets pressed and dried in a volume of Whitman or Goethe.
Call the Bureau of Missing Verses or just let it float up to the top of the overgrown junipers, dancing like a silk scarf at last liberated from its captors neck. A clothing accessory that has finally fulfilled its dream of being a flying dancer.
Haute type and prancing fonts swarm in the late spring breezes, just before warmth surrenders to oppressive heat. The orchestra of cicadas are just warming up before performing their lengthy overture that will last from June to early September.
A poem has gone missing, and its author knows that it was just a placeholder for images and thoughts cast in amber. It must dance on its own now, perhaps to be found after its long journey enhanced by gusty winds and gulls oblivious to its original intent.