Sunday’s shadow leaves Monday looking back in vain
At what possibilities that she mistook for fame,
And left her sneezing at the chosen one’s pain,
Handed down to him by those he can’t contain.
Fall freely blossom bird.
Your thunder yet is sounding
Upon the rolling hills
That divide the meadow.
The gardens live on
And grow though they stand
A million miles from home,
Or what we once did call.
Spin child, spin, upon higher grounds.
They cling to one another, with such atomic force
And their hydrogen hands, held in hand
For the world to see, though not set free.
Summer’s clown cries softly beneath his smile.
Not one sees his deep longing,
His tiresome glow,
Below his painted skin.