A Poet's Lyre

Childhood made a Poet's Lyre
Hands embroidered in limbs of dark briar
Bent to the wind's plaintive whistling words
Scattering whispers in your nettled hood
Would they fall to a weathered home
With branches of arms for a laden pillow
And years wrought of withering laurels
Blossoms now on the apple boughs
Stars are near to the shaded arbor
Once a hand could touch
Wherefore the other will search
Childhood made a Poet's Lyre
Heart enfolded in wings of black bird
Could they fly on feathers borne
When lips salute the Hazel's Horn
Or would they crawl through a weathered home
Should lips encumber a mordant moan
Bent to the wind's whistling word
What cloudy guest at this darkened hearth
What cloistered heart to hold the black earth
Once a hand could touch
Wherefore the other will search