|Magpie Tales 59|
My name won’t ring any bells.
There’s no face to it.
In a crowd of heavies
only the keenest minglers
note my signature spears of juniper,
my wilting inlets,
draping the sallow masonry
that would otherwise grace porcelain shoulders.
I suppose I could brag.
where would they be without me?
The Plains? Another blazing sunrise?
I prefer though, to remain the bright glade in passing,
turning the occasional head,
whose accolades never loose their savor,
fading in mass, until unnoticed
like valleys, bridged behind a masterpiece.