Caught in the tree
Plump with the hearty green of late spring
Are the flattening corpses of two mylar balloons
Blue ribbed strings hanging in ackward curly Qs
Around the lower boughs-
A lattice of ceiling overlooking the grass
Where no children play
Each crease in the shiny wrinkling globes
An eye, multisecting insect eyes
Watching like a forgotten gargoyle
For the advent of a daring child
One who would undo what has been done
A volunteer to risk skinned palms and knees
The young, innocent blood that cares
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2 comments:
Excellent poem! It sounds like a story from Dandelion Wine.
What a huge compliment! Thank you.
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