I passed
the deepest greenfield
On this day of whiffy summersun
And instantly was captured:
had
To stop and bob a bill
toward a
Herd of little-leggers
moeing runty-shins
Untoward about a most
unlikely burg.
They arrived in a thousand
shades
Of Bambini, pudge,
and ghost,
High on hope and shylights,
All fawning on the
slider
That never yet had
slud,
The dizzy that itself
had no mind
To spin and hung there
like
A maiden unbound in
gallant homage
While the revolution
forged so far,
So fast that it was
lodged
In Mudville hours before
the
Nightcap Limited invoked
Its roundhouse right.
Somehow the jeery canbreaks
Called to mind the
year
We planted the old
green gallows
With throneberries
and bally-whackers,
Fully expecting a harvest
Of half-blind nightingales
And the oftimes ribald
lark;
Youthful of moment,
We were unsurprised
And full of heady cackle
At the fall's implosion
of dusty jays
Skewered between safe
and home:
So we consoled ourselves
in crushing
A wholly canted September
With half a chilled
October
To make the wine
That left its lees
In the tatters of their
tales.
It no longer matters
that
The goat got all the
chaff
In aspiring to be a
sheep:
Pleasures lie in the
motley tang
Of failure lined with
grace;
No calling higher
Than to put out the
fire
Blown awry by the heroes
of spring.