Reflections on Baby Chicks
I’ve never smelled the baby chicks in their warming boxes, but I know the smell as if i had tended them in my youth, when love called, melting my heart in a saffron glow of feathers and high strung words, said low and soft, recalling.
Little yellow chicks in an Easter basket at Spring in the lazy Sunday Valley, just a skill to spin a yarn so aglow in downy dumb, dumb, dumb, pecking eyes like Shakespeare’s one day dream.
Wood in crate with a perch just so, preening green at Christmas for my love to carry you through the Crepe Myrtle trees to Whimsy, sun flickering here and shading there, and beaming like a lamp on warm beaks, and fuzzy berth water buckets.
A little slow down on the farm of future dreams unrequited, in twenty four hours of innocence, before the warming lamp alit thy sly plot.
A time bomb you say, traveling all the way from Frederick in another era, aglow, aglee, to show me some treasure purchased for a pretty wheat penny or three.
A curiosity, you say like some mysterious package wrapped up tight in another man’s cologne spilled on your black leather boots walking around me in circles, grinning with red painted lips not really but just as well.
The prized find, just a three headed monstrosity of mythology stuffed up right to impart a meaning now dawned. Nothing here, you say, no message for you today, but jesters play at remember Luther the chicken man, no, you wouldn’t know.
Your grotesque projection of some ancient chicken box cutthroat moment of yore, blind from all the pecking hens, so you cannot see the little rabbit sniffing Rosemary out back, beyond the house of chickens past, unmoved, not really but just a hare.
I dare a whiskered sniffle toward an empty nest and turn my long ears south to the land of Avalon’s poetry.