Ponder The Moon

Like a song, a sonnet can fly . . . patterns that breathe.
Give me poetry, sheer dance with an ambiance.
If the subject is writing, I will take it on.
On cloud nine, vanilla puffs of mooncheese speak of
a space in time where the map of foxes sleep well.
Free fondest memories without a false couplet.
Like miracles of birth, poets grow in this way
so that emotions will become Verse's best feasts--
a stanza of our lives measures the sap of souls.
The language of personal wooing advances
as I change my world. I see more to dream of you.
Crouching in this chair like a tiger, paper flies.