lake mirror
of morning—
o tulips, delicate,
soft, and diffuse,
breathing in
small beads
of opalescent water
and breathing out
the inchoate language
of spring—
please put this poet
in his place
for a change;
put him
to some better use
than these eager young
sparrows' peckish
chirping to distraction,
as if trying to rustle
up the perfect
word for le mot juste.
