It is one of those spring days where
the moon rises early,
while the sun sags low in the sky.
The trees are in that ‘between’ stage,
against the blue sky,
but with a sheen of green.
My son and I walk the levee by a lake.
We look out at solid white sailboats,
though one has an orange sail
-a challenge to just to be different.
I walk slightly ahead of him,
because he doesn’t like people
to walk behind him.
I show him my swagger.
He shows me his zombie shuffle.
We both raise a hand
to block the sun,
as we trace its declination
on the water.
He hums Eye of the Tiger
-to encourage the stair joggers
making the journey to the top-
and says he can only remember the tagline.
I think of the song
from Beethoven’s famous ninth symphony,
and move ahead
with a shuffle and a swagger.
A careful fling
tightly wrapped in comfort-
aired with grace.
with reckless abandon
for a touch.
Caught or not? Marked
hurled through space,
to ensnare the sweet cache-
afterward, tell the tale-
sun and moon and stars and rain
falling, trembling in the strain
with flying photons dimly lit
upon the walls that give them wit
daily starfall pockets watch
with sinking feelings (hearts in clutch)
widely seen in greenish light
spilling solar flares to flight
drops that fall this way and that
the in-betweens – they chase and scat
crackles follow coming hues
(and shine on sunny faces too)
other orbs our hearts devise
coming ’round in changing skies
passing time in every day
keeping watch on our display
in the flight of astral miles
stories document our whiles
to reap a garden – sing a strain
sparkling always in the reign.