I sometimes walk on hands and feet,
Just to walk across the street.
To climb the limbs of a forest tree,
To write a line of poetry.
Swing on vines of verse and rhyme,
Skinny ones and thick in prime.
Try to reach the highest perch,
To grasp the flowers of my search.
Each vine a symbol that hangs down.
Some carry and some break down.
Some will swing you to the heights.
Launch you to fantastic flights.
When I'm tired I weave a nest,
Of words and symbols I like best.
Ponder all the things bizarre.
And wish straight up into a star.
Perhaps these seem like monkey shines?
Playing here with verse and vines.
But civilization plays its power,
Much to close for freedoms hour.
And so I swing, from time to time,
In muse and yield to verse and rhyme.