Sometimes like a cat poetry refuses to leave the tree,

we know it isn’t truly stuck, it’s up there being free.

Among the leaves and branches with jumbled words and winds

that make no sense to anyone unless the songbird sings…

sometimes soft and sometimes shrill it wisps the flailing breeze

to lift and craft within its will a moment sent to please.

All things of form have many parts like cogs that turn a wheel

as songs of birds lift many hearts that they again might feel.