POEM

       Inside of every clock

Death shakes like chrysalides

       with every tick.

       My heart is like a painted snowflake 

in the middle of summer
       & gradually the sky climbs into Autumn

       while Winter is an avenue away
& in Winter,  I watch
       as birds ice-skate upon the frozen sky. 

       Each of our souls are Music Boxes
full of singing memories.  We are
       all capable of being pearls

so that even the oyster is aware
           of the dialects of our hearts.