Fly their angel wings
Looking to drop dey young
On apoplectic spring,
An egg-shelled infantry
Of instant infant karmakaze
Worth its wait in sand ...
The ducks have returned to our yard,
Doves, wasps and possums in the eaves,
There's crying again, the same question
Always: what they need,
As their protectors cry
For what they can’t protect, what they've released
In an endless velocity of escape.
It's who they were, but know no more.
The chore's done soon, songs sung again,
As if the search would never have to end
And one won't need to bear the conclusion.
The votive is sparked
In the baby's name,
Old moon wiped clean of slime.
The eagle looks down at what hope
Miraculously upsprings
Knowing that something will not be lost
To the unapologetic wind,
Such a music,
Wild and flying -- not yet free
... Jameson.
