Nine by Four

The Braeburn thought, “Gone again,
gone the work of summer; 
spread along the stream,
fed to Plastic bags;
succumbing to one eddy
and another, rosy skins
lifting like dervish skirts,
leaving tender nurseries empty
as flotsam drifting below clouds.

The late afternoon whispered,
we are children of nothing
and Everything,
two hands fanned wide -
no point in worry;
bliss doesn’t forget,
our story is a sling
to set space Dust
swimming across the sun.

The Eider down explored
the good in getting
caught up in Something;
like a boy with a new book
curled and snug among
shelves of dust mites
and Dewey Decimal codes,
eating words from a page,
growing fat on dragon lore.

The north wind yearned
to run steady, still Greedy
for the next moment,
shoving nimbus clouds
so brilliance would turn
the day supple as mare’s tail.
Duty is like this, sometimes
a thorny vine climbing
to push its perfume skyward.


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