The Widow Wyile has an artisanal
ancestral finger woven WordRobe
she cloaks about herself
when searching for a word or more
that would be the best fit
for a mood   a feeling   an occasion
or some simple situation 

This WordRobe of hers
is a fabric mirror fun house
wherein beauty rains
love showers
winds haul     
the heart most often snows
and meanings are
polymorphous 

Some days words form in stripes
others frolic amid the good
nature of polka dots
while others still are best
weathered by solids
sturdy tweeds    embroidered woollens
dressed up and down with
silken scarves or paisley neckerchiefs
vocabulary with fine floral flourishes
she has found
are good harbingers of lightheartedness
enhancing quick verbal réparti
in genial company
when she suddenly may state
regardez messieurs mesdames
ce manteau que je porte
un abécédaire qui pour
une raison ou l’autre
a le pouvoir d’un trouble-d’entendre 

Did you know that diction
makes fine hosiery?
that adjectives and adverbs
might serve as haberdashery?
lexical accoutrements
baroque dingbats
celestial effusions
emanate from her finger
tips with ease
when within this snood
she takes her stand

Once the Widow Wyile’s
open Wordrobe
enfolds her
its magical markers
draw wondrous swirls
closer closer
incanting
            enchanting
compellingly spelling her to
in scribe
vowels and consonants
into consummate wrap
around story sense
and silly billy
tea

            hocus pocus
            this is not
            it’s a wordy rapping hood*
            she’s got

            and she well knows
            words are worth
          alotalotalot
           Awoo awoo ayee kie chi'*
            voici leurs puits d’esprit!
            ayeeeee
            je suis

 *thanks Tom Tom Club