- for Gretchen Polnac -
The only thing we knew was our small patch of earth,
blanketed flat before a blazing sun –
a gift, thought some (others, a reprieve), from its fire.
It’s true that we were also aware of the moon –
that other ball that floated in the sky;
but we gave it no thought until we reached the sea.
Each one of our first-found things was a sort of key
to everything we’d later find of worth –
a legend to all that would make us laugh and sigh.
They permitted each other to dazzle and stun
until each seemed a bit less like a rune.
In them we came to discern both plenty and mire.
In some of them we’d thrive, while in others we’d tire.
And then arose the Discourse of the Free:
from sight came sculpture, from sound an abstracted tune,
and from that spirited song rose tragedy’s birth,
antecedent, in turn, of modern fun,
which gave rise to questions like “Who is this poem by?”
The good and ill effects that come from asking why
are the beads on our chronology’s wire,
ordained by Abraham Goth and Catherine Hun.
The bard who chronicles best claims the highest fee.
His tale elicits tears as well as mirth.
It attests to youthful heights that are reached in June,
to September, when we begin to trim and prune,
to autumn’s end, with death and winter nigh,
to variety incubating in that dearth,
to folks who gather so much of it all to choir
that Everyman thinks, “This was done for me!”
Yes, this is how from the elements has been spun
Life’s epic sweep, right down to its silliest pun.
So there you have it, my companions boon!
You see how the stanzas set as the phonemes flee.
As you’re passing this on, be sure to slap your thigh
before you toss your script upon the pyre.
Then sit back down, have a beer, and succor your girth.
We owe it to the sun which sits up in that sky –
also to the moon which reflects that fire –
that this, our buoyant Earth, never falls to the sea.