Shrapnel No. 486

Call on this, the knocking of brass and wood
The faerie grounds, tall typhoon
Come again, the lilt of streams
Forest eared, tell that squirrels slept
Curled fur cocoon, all forgotten

Till spring's brass rubs the glass bright

Turning the contents, oddly titled chapters
And meditations.
If all the passersby rode Pennyfarthings.

I could lie like this, dissemble and stammer
Talk of everyone but you
As you are language, are grammar.