When I stare at your red back,
and your little legs which move,
at your dots, so black, and black,
and your wings, whispering their tune,
I marvel at the master’s touch,
and reflect on my high school,
when I sat in class, just after lunch,
and heard science teachers rue,
that we cannot dream in color,
but I say, we can and do –
for there never was a color,
as beautiful as you.
I still recall the garden on the night,
you brought your promise and your song,
a curse made from simple rhymes -
to which we now belong:
“Eat from this tree and you will be,
as God’s own hand within the sky,
with strength to judge, and entreat -
and to taste of the divine.”
Oh the hills we could have trod!
Oh the joys there would have been!
You’d said you’d make us gods,
But instead – you made us men.
In my sleep,
I can see the devil’s diaries,
row by row, and line by line,
and though the titles are unseen,
I know one of them is mine.
It is an account of most I’ve done -
of all those things I am ashamed:
all those places where I’ve gone,
that were never worth the wait.
But I hope to reach a final page,
I pre-write now for my demon muse:
“He has put off all our ways.
I know not what to do.”
