When you used to immerse your wild, whimsical verse
in my river of radiant color,
blooms were indigo, yellow, ambrosial or mellow —
then, promptly, the world became duller.
For, my dear, you put bounds on my use, claiming nouns
and verbs were the principal creatures
of eloquent writing. I went into hiding,
and the world was devoid of all features:
Neither salty nor sweet, neither sluggish nor fleet,
neither loud, dulcet, ovoid, or square;
subtle hues were all gone from the heavens at dawn,
and Earth was space-cold, desert-bare.
In less than a week, I decreased to a creek,
and the fish and the frogs had all left
with each dragonfly, heron, and mallard. So barren
of spirit, so wholly bereft
of attributes now was your poetry, how
any reader could stomach one line
was beyond comprehension. A single dimension
now made up your formerly fine
artistic endeavor. But you chose to sever
my current of polychromatic
flora, fauna, and stones. Now your poems were bones
stripped of all that was once charismatic.
With no “large,” “small” or “medium,” ongoing tedium
moved you to want me anew.
Skin’s now silky or hairy; beasts, friendly or scary —
though we’ve lost that disconsolate-blue.
But that is a hue you could certainly do
well without, for you’ve infinite flavor
in your phrases once more. While I surge and I roar,
all your nouns have such spices to savor!