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A canvas of white canvas, And pointed cloth ceilings ascending, The merchants are unpacking, With visions of profits impending. An art fair just awakened And sounds of exhibits' transition, Replaces quiet morning With hammering's prolonged repetition. Where once was sod and garden Is now a vast sea of bazaar tents, With sculptures and fair food, And crowds choosing holiday presents. 
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Mother nature mother country country 'tis of thee country road road apples road leading home home to roost home at three three white birds three dog night night owls night vision vision of paradise vision of the future future probabilities future is now now and forever now we can see see how they fail see to it tomorrow tomorrow never knows tomorrow isn't soon enough enough waste enough time has past past experience past tense tense muscles tense times times like these times are changing changing doctrines changing minds minds will follow minds made up up the canyon walls up in the air air your dirty laundry air raid raid the environment raid the piggy bank bank on it bank of the great river river of waste river runs wild wild oats wild and fancy free free to fly free as birds birds... fly... 
Sometimes the fables of our youth that mothers oft repeat still come to mind in adult lives to punish our deceit. "May lightning strike me as I stand," is said to cover lies, beware, the smiting might occur before you can revise. A bolt descends from black of storm, enforcing breach of trust, we rarely know the smitten ones, unless, alas, it's us. 
I truly longed to be her kissing cousin, way back when we were hormone-laden teens, but geographic space would not allow it, we grew apart before we had the means. The years ahead had little time for cousins, and Barb would flourish as a loving wife. When children came, she was a caring mother, her world revolved around her perfect life. My family had also proved consuming, and time went by without a fleeting thought about the crush that once preoccupied me, but for reunion times we both had caught. Surprising that a sculpture on the plains reminded that my love of Barb remains. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
February 2020
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