Who gives refuge to the poet
makes milkweed for a monarch —
on white pages dizzy shapes
spun of light.

Who offers shelter to the painter grows
yellow paper like a Budleia bush.
Mad green lines scrawl, arches of ink
tilt in the candlelight.

Such meadow makers open up a shrine.
Bristly brushes hover over words.
Pens sip soft deep veins of blue
until it’s time to lift their awful wings.