To a Lover Who Has Dreamt of a Camera as a Beautiful Black Bird
To grow up in the shadow of a happy home. The long comfortable shadow of plain spoken folk. Kin and others. Amidst the dense East Texas look around. Childhood’s proscenium trees harboring and framing the sanguine ghosts and mind sprites, knowing them. Pleasant company on a stroll.
Quite suddenly from around a sudden corner new gauzy wraiths remind. Old tasks sag. The lense cleaves the world. Doors open and speak of beckoning, caresses. Then, to travel ghostlike stumbling over quotidia. To know a cage.
Lickity split bounding after the sweet, wise, de-shackled black bird. The thrilling, seducing, chattering black thing developed and fixed.
Watch me point my toe. I will dance in awe and gratitude. Sweet black bird of box and visions, accept my dreams.