Flicker

Wailing, we are born atop the farthest

    branches of an ancient tree whose scars we

scorn to bear, instead breathing into past

    dreams the dust of youth. We do not know the

hour of our arrival’s late; we linger

    only for a while, and lay our heads on

pillows made of straw. A slender finger

    raises without pointing; a fox is drawn

and laid to rest between the leaves. We stir

    anon, awoken by the breathless sound

of copper wire unspooling in the air;

    ours sons are here, where daughters found.

 

A falling death fills the interlude, blown

    by flutes and theremins that call us home.

Reviews

[Lydia Shutter]

As solemn as a prayer.....as beautiful as a blossom opening in the morning sun. This inspirational poem is exceptionally well written. It evokes intense thought. Wonderful work. Lydi**