The poem was visualized on the front, screen porch,
in silence, in wonder...
It swarmed the Autumn-purpled flowers by the door,
leafed through reds, golds of the Chinaberry Tree...
sleucing words down Sunday-wet-tin,
onto the wooden steps.
The poem never stalked like Lady McBeth, through
darkness to her ending hall, last line spoken...
Never flew too close to the Sun, as Icarus,
gathered no Phoenix rebirth...
The poem did not herald a magical Sunday.
For the poem stayed on the front porch,
and was never written.