I recall full moon silver upon frosted eves & glassine dew upon sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders, masters of weave, slept snug & warm beneath an eave. The creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad, yet I cannot sing when I am mad. Atom beats drove me insane. The sight I saw played upon 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 raven’s 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 before first dawn this has been so. But then again, how would I know?
Heart returned to our beloved’s sky, then the piercing glint in 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.