Admitting to the clouds that they will not rain,
But you can trust me to drive myself home- as you turn away
Over a golf course that your father maintains during the
Day- after he has passed across all of the fronteras and made
Wonderful forts in the countries of our blues:
And you have a son, and you have a daughter and they live near
The Christmases that even the giants cannot pass;
And they wander through sly avenues and have children of their
Own of sticks and hay: In the storms gathered by the mountains
Like wet clay, the horses stumbling in the peat bogs,
And the willow wisps flickering heatless promises:
The castles that were once so grand, are now all awash, and drool like
Landslides that the dragonflies patter into like woebegone
Pilgrims who once were well on their way; and your uncle belongs
In Mexico hanging in the trees that shaded your childhood-
The places in which you belong, my Alma- my soul, which have
Forgotten you, while I grow more imperfect trying to sing:
The swing sets diminish as the sunsets, and your children will soon
Be bussed into a high school to be taught things that you never
Will- and that I sincerely wish I could never understand.
To The Clouds
Did you enjoy the the artible “To The Clouds” from Robert Rorabeck on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply