Read Poems by
"The Children's Hour," Franklin D. called it,
putting his stamp on that ceremony, and, so,
we come together, bird, and beast: a yappy
little Bichon Frise in the parking lot, who believes
he's a Rotweiler. And, then there's the poet,
that strange species you are advised to avoid
lest what's worse, get written up in verse.
It's five p.m., and the great-winged birds (read
Turkey Buzzards) are circling over the lake
as if they know it's time for drowning sins.
I've been absolved of mine, the priest was kind,
still, residual remorse remains for those washed-
out black buzzard-stains, whose namesakes
leave no signs of circling, no trace in the sky,
unlike the plane shot like a ball from a cannon
that is climbing straight up over the snowy
rope beneath it. Then, out of the blue,
another -- the two aerial acrobats
forming a giant X like the cross that
St. Andrew hung on, but it's an epiphany,
not a crucifixion we celebrate as we clink
our glasses,wondering, where go these
hardy climbers, these sky divers? To what
destination, what new creation from their
ropes of light? Where they go, I do not know.
Where, in the offing, trails dissolving,
never the twain shall meet...
I, Thee greet,