Gingerbread

There's a piece by that adamant mountain,
one by that sparkling river,
one in that water nymph's hair
one by that unrhyming canyon.

A piece of me all over the world,
a jack in all trades,
ought to mean that I own the golden eggs,
O Boy, it appears that I forgot another rhyme.

As words drop our syllable by syllable,
mind, not on the page, dear reader,
old fluidity long bygone,
replaced by that empty rock, yes,
the one right there.

Hope is the thing with feathers,
that perches in the soul,
but when your soul is
tried up tufts of hair
rolling across the African savannah,
oops, there goes my rhyme and reason.

Over the course of lines few,
I have lost pieces and rhyme,
reason and time.
Nevermore, mind.

- Lynn Gweeny

The randomness of this piece never fails to amuse me.