Joy

Oh how shall we tame joy?
With words?

Words are to joy
as scarecrows to the birds.
Flap tattered sleeves of speech
and out she'll start
with blackbird screech
and eyes frozen with fright.

Joy was not made
for the gilt cage
of human verbiage.
Captive, the sickle wings
grow frayed,
the damson breast
and crest of rose
grow limp —
she may well die.

Best let her fly.