I recall the full moonís silver frosting the eve,
glassine dew on the sycamoreís sleeve,
while sagacious spiders, masters of weave, in Godís
great wisdom she did conceive, slept snug and warm
beneath my eave. The creek roared fierce with a late
spring rain. All things full must surely wane.
Perpetual blossoms should not be sad, but I cannot
sing when I am mad. Atomís beat made me insane, for
the sight I saw played on my brain. I wondered if
the sky felt pain. A Raven did approach the nest
which sits above the very best. The Hawkís quick eye
did catch the beast but not before the ravens feast.
The hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky bank
of the canyon floor. The rest, of course, is etched
in lore. An angel garbed in feathered dress,
descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe,
his blood now cold, rose from the dead on wings of gold;
miraculous in the Phoenix mold, fell from the sky,
then resurrected, a God-shot is quite unexpected.
For when the Reaper comes, itís time to go.
Since the first dawn, this has been so. But then again,
how would I know? Heart returned to our young kingís sky.
Then the piercing glint of our dear chickís eye.
The babe ascended his lofty nest to the greatest comfort,
a motherís breast. Successful in her angel quest,
our heroine in feathered dress, returned to where
all angels rest. And to this day, this lore Iíve told,
delights all children, both young and old.
mar 27 2006