I'd hang a poem or two, well-framed to shine,
on the walls of a friend or two, and their's on mine.

You see, opalescent clouds from pink skies
march in regular lines towards me.
See again for a converse perspective,
and artful the braiding of melody.

I believe our words should begin to care 
about exactly who they're written for.
Why trust our babies to public platforms,
to hope against hope while profit proves poor?

This early spring, little better than winter,
here is warm bread and reclaimed lore to share.
Can it be we're on the right track to find
again heroes for this diminished sphere?