I’ll not go meekly into the darkness of this page where sentences mimic wee ants on the march, each laden down with the nouns of this picnic, this alphabet of my soul and as I lie here on this bed of green feathers the story of clouds scrying their history in the orbs of my eyes I’ll daydream a garden, an orchard of plums ripe for the plucking, taste the sweetness of berries in a bouquet of words as they roll on the pallet, a feast for a king.