If

If
you could sprinkle a day, with few fronds of spoken words
in poetic flow of verse or prose
like assorted rare birds, that'd flap in rhymes
or limericks or none.

If
you could pack those unique words
in a bundle of voice,
which sounds like sonorous gravel on honeyed roads
and perhaps fix it atop a webwide bird
set it free, let it soar
and find its way to a nest nearby

If
it'd chirp some words, words with sounds
I'd hold it close to my ears and let it sing
like colours of music
hidden in corners of a circle round.