Perspective
A poem
Each day excited he runs to the yard
clutching like gems those books whose
stories are etched in his heart. They tell
of conquest, fame, of far away land marked
by boulder and pine, misty black
mountains falling feet first into
crashing waves.
Each day excited he runs to the yard
knowing the brown grass he finds, the
dry old tree in the corner of the fenced-off
lot, edged by that four-panelled oaky
horizon occluding his view- knowing all
these merely block the truth of what lies behind:
the canyons and meadows noted in the
tattered margins of his dream-lined pages.
Each day excited he runs to the yard,
and measures himself against that wall
knowing every inch he gains over months
and years will add to a total, one day enough
to peer past the edge of those panels and boards,
see with his own eyes the majesty
his authors recorded, mind’s picture
realized in crusted earth.
One day excited he runs to the yard,
finding his stature suddenly sufficient
to peek over that long occluding edge,
stretching on pointed toes to see
the sure and welcome signs of some
great natural tableau,
seeing instead some far-off stretching
fields of dead gray plains, vast and
without end, pockmarked by murky wet
shallow pools of brown.
Despair is only temporary,
this can not be, must not be,
and searching the edges of that reality he
will not accept he finds the point
where shallow lunar gray meets
overcast sky, barely perceptible among
all the monotony.
“As much a fence as any other,”
he declares,
setting himself to grow tall enough
to see past that distant horizon.
—
Each day excited he runs to the yard,
—
Each day determined he walks to the yard,
—
Each day enduring he limps to the yard
still fenced in his birthright pen,
“I shall leap it at last,” he knows,
“When this pain in my knee subsides,
when this stoop in my back corrects,
and standing tall once again
I run free past the edge of that horizon
to that promised land beyond.”
He stares dully at the
meeting of the grays,
frowns, rests his heavy head on fencepost,
same four walls containing, same
deadened white tree crumbling
in the corner,
same infected plains
stretching far away.
This story was published in The Cotton Thread — weaving life with words. If you want to be a writer in our publication, click here
