The Lesson

Oh, yes, it is as if
The final drop of the storm
Has landed; and now eyes,
Dimmed by clouds gray and forlorn,
Can see the working man's sun,
Dimmed, gray and forlorn
No more.

It is so, for seasons teach
That the valleys and its specters
Must give birth
To the hills and its angels.

It is so. It was then;
So shall it be today;
And again in the carefree morrow.

The Stickman

The stickman
He moves
With steps ailing.

He looks
Up to
The yellow sky
As the brown earth
His tears kiss.

He looks
Down on
His shriveled hands,
These hands
Have small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.

But he wishes
To pierce
The yellow sky
Across the black expanse
For home to reach.

Yet not now.
Not soon.
There are small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.