I long to tell a grand story though,
The insides of the insides go lacking.
The days are shortening in which myself
Begins to see myself miserably cracking.
A boy of seven stands stiffly peering
Eight would not be justice to the metaphor,
Seven must be concluded for the steering
Of my lost meaning as I approach the door.
I looking to tree and sky beyond
To gain measure of connecting all bones,
And he within panoptic vessel young
Bends to dirt in some stark pleasure alone.
Stopping my longing along with my knees
I flutter about this scene, the sharp loss
Of ideals flooding my crepitant disease,
Washing it of nobility and other dross.
Fleeting light fickle deftly dances
Upon the child’s back as a soft butterfly
Would tipple gently in stuttered advances
Upon my daylilies lined neatly in the eye,
Before making another silly, dizzy loop
Between the roses with their perfumed smiles
And wandering further up among the group
To scatter seeds of birth for other whiles.
Boy has weed and prods among the blades green
My old eyes must squint in bent pose to suppose
The seeking thing for which youth has now seen
A hole, smaller than my eye can scant disclose
Hidden below the toothed leaf denuding
The dandelion yellow, and here we both pause
Intent in gaze at the green stem protruding
And suddenly it’s jiggling upward of unseen cause.
But still the lad looks onward, into the dark
Oblivion as if to see emerging Kracken there,
It strikes me as one might study cork upon its mark
And just that moment he suddenly declares
“A kind of ground fishing,” with toothy grin
Deftly snatching up his miniature pole
Revealing squiggling creature clasping to its end,
A hornworm, jaws of twice its girth, and wholly
Hanging with great ferocity to its slender ride
I see in clever, dappling venture in my sight
Such the meaning for which I felt so long denied
Oh, metaphorical prose should form quickly in delight
Fainting not upon my memory the colors for the pen
I’ll paint in truest image ideals to be gleaned
From summer afternoon’s youthful games within
The mind does play such trickery with the old and dreamed.