what you whisper

peruse the tips,
the writing of the succulent days,
after windy drips,
the blizzard of drizzles, tangled
as nude armpits of trees...

oft i thought the sounds of the
morning clouded,
the chatter of the earliest birds,
only you after you and all,

wrapped around the bark,
within the architecture of your home,
sharpening your teeth by toothing,
your being as still as thunder
when amazed, as heard by an audience.

graped by that something,
as gracious as a gesture of notice,
the songs begin to beat as flutters of wings
beat about,
under the sky.