A Man of Simple Dreams
( After Lord Byron )
To wake of morning, half-light crowning—
spitting flash through arthritic trees;
a spindly flame, waxing stronger
exposing ivory skin of frosted field.
An aroma, roasted kernel twists
as cats, entwined amid feet;
timorous stems of shadow retreat
across leaf-strewn concrete.
To hear the yodel of migrating loon
depart winter-tide for passion
disrupts me not, despite their omen;
armed guards of snow, capturing
the garden, sparing no green survivor
save evergreens, their boughs adorned—
pearls before swine; Venus Fly-
trapped, awaiting inevitable thaw. . .
aftertastes of solitude, escaping
ivory towers o're time's terra firma—
until such, I shall in patience remain
a man of simple dreams.
For J-with love