Hay bale twilight

-photo of Kilimanjaro's sunrise courtesy of Matt Schnable



Speaking softly as words take flight with doves.

Grass of summer,
Leaf of fall,
Dwindling light glittering in the corner of your eye;
We three bodies dirty with childhood:
Scraped knees, brown nails--
We don't go home to the endearing admonishment,
We prepare our own meals now
Upon stoves of transience,
Dusk of yesterday creeping into the sunrise.

Running down a hill with ship sails across our backs:
Flight flapping without tie or hold,
Without shores or ports;
We pirates, nationless and radical
We speak with the wind,
Rather than trained tongue,
Oh! Endless white caps and
Equal swirling flat--
Punctuated with bubbles of teeming life below,
In the place of the flag we burnt
Flaps joyful winds pinned to our breasts--
As emblems of the past we breathe.

Now rest with the calming median oceans,
Neither tumult nor tempest shall flare,
As we lie on our sails, and feather wind.