Hand of power, heart of whimsy, tamer of
mighty rivers. Rivers of initial learning,
nurturer of ancient gardens, gardens in
their fabled beauty hanging yet in utter
freshness in the fecund hearts of poets.
Poet at heart cooped solitary, hostage of
life's fickle fortune. Fortune dreamed
with vanished glories still as green as
tendrils twining. Twining on to memories
heart-held, held while tending patch of
foliage, muttering through graying mustache,
"You're soft muffins, crumbly cookies,
munchies in my white cell circle; circle
stony though surrounds me, I'm still palm tree,
brave, steadfast; that you're not, but bush."