The same to you.
The sun to you: gears
and levers. Few
are the switches years
make. Turning red,
rolling orange past
the warm streaks, bled
crimson. Circles, cast
in circles, slip through
night light. And like
a smooth stone, skip to
the last first strike.
( Inspired by Nixon's proposed Safeguard Missile System )
Around this house are warring winds.
We are winding up and winding down.
Our friends are watchdogs
herded out by high walls.
I will go down to the well
drawing my water in wood
dipping my water in pewter,
worn soft and smooth.
I will touch the clinging vines,
rubbing the leaves between my fingers.
And I will see the stars I missed
when my eyes were young and strong.