no category fits
the lilting sway of doves
that populate a day
in your grasp

chariots riding silk
carry the hours
to a bed of feathers
lined with silver

costumed marionettes
tickle fervor
from eyes twinkling
an inch beyond delight

drenched purple fans
caress honey dipped
glances, gracing
doubt with gleaming smile

the grapes are crushed
their fruit fermenting
firm and blushed
black cherry rendering

respiring days-
the wine waits-
scented bottles filled
with moon dust ripening.

 Happy Birthday, Joe!