So much has left us now, fathers,
The trees we loved, first houses, music boxes,
Mothers, rains from summers of such
Freshness the children in us
Laughed—all gone
Like the age of great symphonies.
In the late afternoon
A rare bird for this region
Walked across the fence top
A blue winged teal
I’m certain.
I’d no one really to tell.
Poetry you are….
Planet of the Blind 