How to Fly

A cemetery of abandoned plots,
unfinished poems, stillborn compositions.
Self-centered daffodils, forget-me-nots,
a stichwort stichwork, shriveling ambitions,

all swaying in a gentle autumn breeze.
No storms here, those have long ago diminished,
and vision bends along, with practiced ease:
Why fight if you already know you're finished?

Strike lightning! I demand. And thunder loud!
Let headstones bathe in sharp, chromatic colors
as sunshine penetrates the permacloud,
a mourning dove takes off, a raven hollers…

Demand… Or beg. Refuses to comply.
Best learn to crawl... Forgotten how to fly.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini