I Am The Wooden Door

You bud. You see. Your wings are wet...in chrysalis. Epistle's, you come to understand. You strain, at first...your fondness for a rhyme, embarrassingly fails...and then, you write again...but this time well. You realize, not everything, was meant to dance...unto your clever line. You edit, these contrarians...out. Though, best of all, you find...at last, that all combine...in riot of a wild kind, and you, a poet...quite, outside the ken, and court...of any man. 

This flower, you've become...no longer bud, no longer favored, of Chevalier...nor powdered, as the Courtesan. Inamorato. No...if ever were. For now, you find the field, dale...and forest, home...it's raw, good earth, it's carnal smell, of sinful fun...it's taint, of truth, has made you...what you are. Your Bud has bloomed...so now, you may do Robin Wild, or mad good Merlin, of The Calidon, and bless you new man. Bless you, by the star...you stand upon.

For, wild wild weed and thorn, of letters fled, to hedged places...rushing, with the waters of the streams and springs of poetry. These, limbed, and stemmed and branched...towers  sentinal, of all the trees, that ever were...and all the forests, in this world...their groves, magnificent. Every herb is here, and sage, among'st them all to stir the balms of help, and you...good man...you know them, every whit, for 'once upon a time'...and many times,you were before.

One good lad, a youngster, free...of  age, with gifts, whose majesty be recognized...shall find thee well, and learn of thee...the wind, the shell, the fire, the stone, and there, above them all...the stars, about thy whited head, and he will draw you to the sign you've made...upon the ground, that quincunx...where thou lay, and he...your mage, be made.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: russianfineart.com, Druid Wizard (I am the wooden door)