The Preacher's Son
A lonely figure twirls itself, concealed
by blades of wheat as clouds float through the sky.
The form, a boy, looks up from golden field
and sees the clouds as wedges of cream pie.
He hides despair as if it were that wart
beneath his sleeve. A no-fuss, lonesome lad,
he thinks of things most wonderful to thwart
forlornness. . . He rehearses being glad.
Skipping to the thicket, near a brier,
he spies some lovely flowers; standing there
he uses the demeanor of his sire,
pretends to hold a Bible, thumps the air. . .
and preaching to forget-me-nots, the boy
imagines what might be. . . imagines joy.
For Chris' Anything goes!
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