So wizened minutes leading to the exits;
The works of art are ended, conversation grow moot
For those who gave themselves at the ticket booth—
Their latest greatest vendor of the eyes and word. Tired texts
Are cast against the ear and brilliant screen, a feckless
Lexicon begun when all of us were children, but precious roots
Not seen and altogether missing for precocious flukes
And tenderest green shoots that ever rise to what comes next:
“Now I lay me down to sleep.” Gnarled twists, these flawless stems become
When once the everyday surprise of morning gains in gravitas.
Quotidian change the harbinger of strange and wondrous sap,
At once the greatest fear and only hope to close the gap,
And all conceals just where it was we all began and where the run
Of luck and love and all that life holds dear must land.
Photograph at top by BS Garvin