to the drone of
puppetry
dangling
children tied to sticks,
to them I come
and snip the strings.
A putting on of
flesh ensues,
Pinocchio made a
real boy at last.
Drawn on by
my calling,
I open windows,
letting in insects that we name,
Welcome as new
students to perch on pencils,
Add their insect
voice to the generation whose job it will be
to adjust the
climate so such creatures are still able to fly
through windows,
perching on their grandchildren’s pencils,
in classrooms of
teachers who value such things,
The dignity of
the sovereign mind,
Spontaneity of
lightning thought
Tracing jagged
lines across the evening sky,
Through all
their years solid in belief
That in the
summer, fire does fly.
June, 2012
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