Illegitimate son of the seventh,
Born of a mid-afternoon dalliance
On the day appropriated for "rest,"
Though farmers, unlike gods,
Have cows to milk on Sundays,
And in some arbitrary spinning of the calendar
Western man has declared
The traditional market day is the Last,
The rest day is the First.

We should know better,
Though spring sunlight on a meadow
Is as tempting to a maturing girl child
As is a maturing girl child
To a foolish middle-aged man
And some of us are predestined to be
The inevitable products of such
Moments of madness,

And spend our lives with
The breath of spring meadows about us,
Confused by secrets growing visible and round,
Unable to fathom how shadows
Can be cast by something as beautiful
As a soft belly grown great and solid,
Or the opportunity to dance
Anything less than the manifestation of a dream.
                                               12-3-99

Index     Choosing Memories