I come upon the winding road in the thicket

I come upon the winding road in the thicket
with a candle on my forehead, forging ahead
in the delightful remove. 
Where the curves of the world 
have cobblestones and ivy.
Briarpatch eyes and lazy ravens
painting the sky
too Blue.
I keep my leaving in my stationery hive of rain 
and long mourning. Happiness chips away at the frost
of a dormant grove of beleaguered charms…
where hornets sleep on spikes of spun sugar
and canaries  are more yellow
than a laughing
Truth.