A Grand Father

Ashen skies
We mount ashen skies
And summer flies
Drown in waxy pools

Of eastern autumns
I know not
But summer speeds
The ashen skies

You gripped my hand
As you were sinking
spun triumphantly
Across a vertiguous vortex

Where have you entered?
Into elliptical orbit?

My cowardice craftily kicking creation
Embedding our boundary lines
crickets call the morning to speak sharply
Calling to creation
Like stars winking in dreadful nights

One to create
To create the one
That breaks into prismatic fragments
When sharp angles underfoot
Remind the weary of none, of nothing

You have been pulled under
To one, to love
The ashen overbelly of creation

-for pop-pop
Copyright 2005