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What would we ever do without your towers?
A grace that stands against the cobalt sky. Your silhouette could fascinate for hours, the height and deft of muscle you supply. A beam of gray floats silently above me, suspended from a ribbon made of steel, from left to right you swing around the birch tree and carefully your gears unwind the reel. While each of levered arms supporting lattice of trusses and a maze of countless walls, without your Herculean apparatus, there wouldn't be skyscrapers, cities, malls. My eyes perceive the beauty of your profile, and like the gentle birds that share your name, you rise above the turmoil and the junk pile, with little thought of what the world became. 
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The winemaker's season begins with a crush
And bountiful harvests of grapes, Machinery turning the fruitage to mush, The barrels removed from their capes. The vintage assured in a very fine year, When weather and timing agree, The soil is tested, its chemistry clear Of all microscopic debris. The grapevines are withered, succumbing to cold, Their branches are barren and dry, Devout revolution as seasons unfold, Deplete and replenish supply. A winemaker's hope is unswerving and true, Despite a poor yield professed, The master fermenter's best values accrue When wines of the past are assessed. Aware of sensation upon the first taste, The cordial libations perceived, These blended elixirs are fully embraced For tender emotions achieved. With fleeting fulfillment of palate success, The trust of the vintner still weighs, They cultivate art of sommeliers finesse, Explaining the winemaker's gaze. 
With one look they can change people's woeful despair
with their oversized petals of gold, unaware of attention they garner with impassive flair by the odd passers-by, a hushed whisper of wind gently sweeps without care, as if nothing's awry. As the sun tracks the sky, it is followed by those pretty sunflower faces, together they pose in a field of poetry harboring prose, and if only they could, they'd uncover their stalks and set out for, who knows? without limits, for good! 
The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal,
and soon begins cacophony, its tenants anxious to patrol. The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal, the feral night would soon console nocturnal beasts' disharmony. The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal, and soon begins cacophony. 
The sun relaxes as it sets
as if to leave the world alright. When winds die down, again you feel an eerie calm before the night. The dusk takes hold and air is cool, quite different from the hectic day, but wearied eyes now contemplate the placid eve now on display. A gift presented by the lake to all who wander on its shore, is slivered sun, a final glimpse, which now will offer new rapport. That eerie calm, I've come to know, is just the chaos letting go. 
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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
November 2018
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