I am gimp like the shooting star
escaping the firmament of the mundane.
A rusted hammer waiting
to be taken up by a master carpenter
and reinstated;
wind lifting autumn-haggled leaves toward
ashen ceilings like hymns of youth in discordant reveille.
Awaiting Ezekiel’s chariot to be carried
as flesh, chrome and steel bound,
laughing crimson rays and
glinting determination to
teach a feather’s lingering stride.
Shackles slacken about earth’s mantle-
saffron sun creeping through the moss.
Pine’s fragrance abounds.
~S. Barton Cutter
© June 2002
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