Here, what kind of poet am I? I thought you already knew.
I feel a word & I find it’s mate & chart their pas de deux.
Backwards they waltz & forwards they spin dancing their synced soft shoe.
Rhythm evolves with meanings just so; each phrase the next one’s clue.
Enter the May Queen, her maids in tow around the theme they screw.
Then witches writhe around their cauldron tossing rhymes in the roux.
My imagination flits & jumps making so much ado.
My thoughts now spit & sputter their steam while falling into queue.
A dance of ideas & a dance of rhymes born from just the two.
Created, counted & metered out; this poet’s piece is through.
L.B.Stowe 