Lately I’m waking burning with the sun,
images and phrases pouring through my
mindyard—waifs released for recess. They run
in circles, then scatter and hide. I try
to call them back, but they laugh and dissolve
in some distant morning fog. I manage
to grab one or two, hold them with resolve,
promises of nurture. After they rage
or plead, depending on moods, I hear sighs
of surrender, feel their forms succumbing,
begin to fall in line. I watch their eyes.
They start to play. Others appear, thumbing
noses, prancing away. I smile and sway,
focus on chants from those who chose to stay.
Roger Armbrust
September 9, 2010
