I recall full moon’ silver frosting the eve; glassine dew on sycamore’ sleeves.

While sagacious spiders, masters of weave, (with God’s great wisdom were they conceived) slept

snug and warm beneath my eave. The creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things

full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad, but I cannot sing when I am mad.

Atom’s beat made me insane, it was the sight I saw played on my brain.

I wondered if the sky felt pain. A Raven did approach the nest which sits above the very

best. The Hawk’s quick eye did catch the beast, but not before the ravens feast.

The Hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky banks of the canyon floor.

The rest, of course, is etched in lore: An angel garbed in feathered dress

descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe, his blood now cold, rose from the dead

on wings of gold. Miraculous in the Phoenix mold; fell from the sky, then resurrected,

a God-shot is quite unexpected. For when the Reaper comes, it'’s time to go. Since the very first

dawn this has been so. But then again, how would I know? Heart returned to our king’s sky,

and then the piercing glint of our dear chick’s eye. The babe ascended his lofty nest

to the greatest comfort, a mother’s breast. Successful in her Angel quest, our heroine in

feathered dress, returned to where all Angels rest. And to this day this lore

I've told, delights all children, both young and old.

08/26/2006

Posted on 08/26/2006
Copyright © 2025 Scott Utley