Wind racked homemade kites -
seek the Light of God in the Rites of March
In the dancing shadow of bulging Live oak trees
Farm boys preening blue jeans smattered with -
cocklebur and hitchhiker , wild onion & skunk greens
Balsa wood gliders know not where they-
come to lie nor the first mayfly with the conclusion of its time to wither and die...
Just like old vanes that succumb to vernal breath no matter-
how hard they may try..
This's the cold , calculated , precision of morning -
searching for her last night ...
Old men garnished in wisp of gray , like spanish -
moss clinging to hardwoods
Plundered on the high seas ,
a badgered admiral's arms flail in sight-
of the lighthouse , his cry muted by the otherworldly-
breeze ..