Cyclical

Every eagle makes its way
It thinks
To the cliff
Next time
But the wind is uneven, unnatural,
Blowing through the twenty-first century
Like the bad breath of some god
Who wants his constellation back.

Ice floats and sour notes
In Antarctic symphonies
Seem so distant
When your love won’t listen
To prison bars melting
And ladies in distress
Let us all know
They can do it on their own

We knew that forty years ago
When the music sounded so strange,
So beautiful
In the courtyards
Of who knows where.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 09/03/2022 12:38AM by petersz.

Nicely done, Pete. Seems like too many eagles are choking in the breeze these days.



Les

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 09/03/2022 02:20AM by les712.

Thanks, Les. I agree.