I sing the summer boys

Home. The clamoring crowds

With strong drink letter

Affirmations that at last

The series is in the bag.

I’ll never say die.

Even when my heroes fall.

I’ll scale the mountains.

I’ll take the skies of midnight

Home in buckets made of clay.

Shovel the neighbor’s 

Drive. Speaking life to the

Winter wind. In the 

Dark journey the truth now brings

A needle’s golden thread.

I call forth the Spring.

A three-strand string binds the shards

Of broken mirrors. 

It makes sense of the damaged homes in

Reality’s tapestry.

I am not a year

Nor a season, month or day

I am but minutes,

An eye for the thread leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.