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In ""Foreword,"" the opening poem of Clare Rossini?s new book, Lingo, the poet exclaims: ""Don?t tell me the tongue?s / Not a magical place."" And who would argue the point after reading these poems in which the body and spirit of language bring such joy, from a toddler?s garbled imitations to the ripe lines of Shakespeare? Whether in the Midwest or New England, in elegies or celebrations, Rossini takes comfort in the miracle of words, where the homely and exotic can flourish at the same time, like the thought of flamingoes in Minnesota (""Rice County Soliloquy""). Rossini treats both the human and the natural world with tenderness and good-hearted humor, her wit and compassion as impressive as the bravura of plainspoken poetry. Out of such grace come the graceful poems of Lingo.