I bless my demon and send him on his way

and he disar-tic-tic-tic-ulates,

unfolds and unravels,

re-artic-tic-tic-tic-ulating, ticcing,

unfolding, flapping

and snapping his hidden wings

at right angles and flat planes,

calibrating perfect mudras

and whispered Lovesongs

into this poor sodden clay,

forming masterpieces of oak and orchid

and trophies of poppies and peonies

for Mother’s earthly mantle.

(From TROPHIES by Brijit Reed)