The fine point of truth that joins
turning the refinement of forest titans
into the resolute skeleton that shelters
whole orchards of human souls
piecing the perching place of birds
together into the plane of refreshment
The spike that needs a strike to do its job
pneumatic’s fire, or hammer’s pound
upon the blunter end will do the trick
holding treasures to walls
stringing light from rooftops
poking holes that bind
disappearing within
leaving behind only
the gleam of a round face
This poem was in response to a prompt by JD Harms on Medium. Y’all check out his work! Thank you for reading!
The Poetry Patio 