THE RUDIMENTS OF WINGS
Barely stubs,
these soul nodules,
not yet protruding the surface,
still part of the wormlike me.
The force of metamorphosis
thrusts hard against filmy chrysalis;
meconium pulses, dilating miniscule veins.
The terror of change soon will cease,
bring release,
to the rudiments of wings.
February 24, 2022
The tree stretches its branches
Like a cat waking up from sleep
Its leaves give a little shake
Almost like a gentle sneeze
Looks down at the passing river
Snaking its way past its roots
Watering nature as it meanders by
Grass and plants with wormlike shoots
Where is this river running to
What mysteries does it leave behind
Any evil teardrops to poison you
Or just happiness of the watery kind
Whatever hope this picture brings
Look for the sun as it bursts with song
Remember that tree with its catlike stretch
And the lazy river meandering along.
Every afternoon at 12:24
Dwell the long gray moments in the middle
Bewildered and lost in a dark tunnel
With no merciful light on either side
Five days a week just at 12:24
Dwell relentless wormlike tickings of time
And every time I look, hoping for hope
The cold face always says 12:24
Stuck in the road, rolled into the gutter
Down to a silent screeching stop, and I
Can’t go forwards or not even backwards
Time’s cruel trick leaves me at 12:24
In some years it might be 12:55
And heaven’s trumpets sing Oh glory! But
Every afternoon at 12:24
I despair.
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