Sparks of a Passing Torch
My grain of life,
Like sparks of a passing torch,
Rips and licks at strife.
While sad on a porch
The red cardinal claims a song,
Then swoops down into dark mulch.
Then children playing in the night,
Like misfit angels they've taken your tongue,
Spilling pride to such shock and fright.
The grain of your life is as long as the breadth of your consciousness.
And the shoes that you wore when you were four may one day be worn by Pegasus.
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