Letter to my Son (poems from old notebooks, August 24, 1999)

Because my blood is loud with words—
Loud as the thunder of buffalo herds—

I’ve built this poem for you
From bits of sunlight and cups of dew,

From pine needles and twigs of wishes
And mossbanked brooks thick with fishes.

The head of my hammer was forged from love—
Its handle was the voice of the mourning dove.

The nails I cast from a powder snow
Alloyed with feathers fallen from a crow.

Your poem I framed with winter ponds
And buttercups and green fern fronds.

The floors are tiled with robins’ eggs
Laid on beams of elephants’ legs.

The walls are silk caterpillar cocoons,
The mist of lakes, moonlight on ruins.

There is no roof to limit your eye
Because I built your poem of pure blue sky

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Crows, John MacKenzie, Memory, Poem tweets, Poems from old notebooks, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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