The Children Will Come

Bent by the age of the season
The four winds hurried in every direction
To reconnect lost letters.
More and more clouds formed
Collapsing fruit and innocent reason.
The oppression lifted.
The morning paper that read like a scroll
Wrapped the earth. Innocuously
The present was healed. Holding
An afterglow with new meaning on his brow,
One man said the expectant ripples,
Whether or not an expedient dilemma came,
Or the patch of raspberries stayed
When the house was sold, is a story
Of a woman, a determined woman,
Keeping the berries alive
Like a dream wanting to have form and substance.
“ Tell me another one, daddy”
Is what she heard from the raspberries.
The children will come to eat the jams and jellies;
Strained seeds in the palm of her hand will cheer the larceny
That was part of her father’s earthly life and loss.
She missed the blood of her youth:
When the tongues of fire hissed at her.
Maybe a telethon, the wasis and the wasints.
Maybe the walls ringing
Will bring home the dismantled
Like a Rorschach with a single dot;
This code will be sent daily like a Princely necessity.
There was, after all, credulity in grandpa’s eyes;
The angels were happy, and his father,
Who had passed on before him,
Was one who brought acknowledgement
By wearing the pants his father had worn.
I was witness to the reunion and can say that the unity
That radiated from there to here
Is proof of an ever lasting year. ​