Fire
With anvil bells and tongs...

Her beauty mellowed the muse of keys
Each eye riveted from the bounty of thieves...

The white woods walk
About the hills...

A smile from your lips
And a bow to your hips...

Every work of heart is each a piece of art
Be it poems, sculptures, music or drafts...

And who
are you...

Not my favorite drink
But I do like the color...

More valuable life
With more ways to measure...

Like hammer and tongs
The ring of iron songs...

A slender swindler sat down and asked
“Sweet flower, do tell. Say, why are you here...

I cast off my coat and my troubles at my door
My ambition seemed simpler in years before...

“There are children here”
“There are children here, you know...