At the table — linen napkins, fine crystal — flesh to recall cave times.
Dancing lambs in a sunny field — mothers cry to daffodils.
Home from the war — in a coffin — in the night — whippoorwills.
Give Us This Day
The house on the hill
has a song behind its door
each morning someone
lets it out out of kindness
the song flaps up to the roof
and looks demented
and ruffled and it hasn’t
tried to fly away
for a long long time
neither has the poor soul
who lives there
who opens the door
and says pshh
what are wings for
just as I’m coming their way
our father who art in
heaven give us this day
and then they go back again
and I dream on
furiously waving my arms
Songs and Letters, May 27, 2008
Categories: New Poems & Pieces, Songs and Letters
Tags: Daffodils, Dreams, Lambs, Poems, Poetry, War, Whippoorwills
