Deterioration

The morning,
The sun over one small isle of green land



—smells of freshly-disturbed ground:



roots and rot—
Wax and feathers,

A father’s loving, protective words



—heard but not heeded—






Wasted.

High noon,
The roll of the deep blue, oppressing horizon



—roaring a challenge to young ears,



low, but defined, dignified—
Brilliance and warmth,

Arms spread wide, light-bringing angel



—craving the heavens,



unyielding in pursuit—







Falling.