ode to the saintly moth of a modern glee

there might be a dance that rhythms bleakly,
away from the sneaky beadle's crafty stare
a pillar carved to blossom in hidden stone,
roses in secret corners where the few might go:

it is a seductive distance from cold stone joy
to the erect monastic chant, a flying buttress
is also nice to bobble in the saintly tide,
an easy wish for the iconic joy of marble:

just to be somebody must be a potent thrill.

all are eternally frozen in a stony grasp
just beyond the step that steps from two to more-
the weak calf captured on a brick that seems to move:
cloudy dissipation that tempts and fools, repeatedly.

little bulbs pop and flash an afternoon devoid of gnats
cropped scotch pines frame an obese ballerina-
was it frozen by the chimes of an icy carillon?

is the little bird that licks the melting dew
merely a moment that matters and does not?

come little bird, then, lick the ineluctable dew
from pistils now and then-
they are mostly a grainy flash of orange.

you can only move to defy the eternal sun
when you choose to bloom downward,
piercing the wet earth with a fragrant sigh.