Windowsill Words

The quondam grandisonance
Of some aureate diction
Turns up now and then in prose,

But in poetry these days
It’s forbidden, which makes it
Newly tempting, or somewhat

So for the little rebel,
The chaotically neutral,
If not for any reader

Besieged by items begging
For eyeballs of attention.
Everyone likes some baubles

In their personal magpie
Collection. Even Zen monks
Love odd stones in rock gardens.