icarus and the anemoi

 in the morning there is always somewhere to hide
the low sun promises a bright day
but the ice on the ground still affords the opportunity to slide
your motion describing something other than your intent
the shadows that remain can be cleverly combined 
with one's profile giving rise to the perception of shapes
that seem to defy classification
and so your cloak cannot be taken for what it seems
i would often wonder why the message sent
took on the shape of missive
and how the boundaries of everyone seemed to blur into 
images of art and artifice
we were christmas tree ornaments 
on new year's day

the sun seems to move
making progress on it's path through the sky
even though the truth is that the fire is the axis
and it's easy to trick the eye

then when a little heat breaks through the thin film of water
frozen to the street
hands together held high when all shadows falter
all the mysterious shapes seem to take on meaning

(where before art and artifice had us creating
names for things that seemed so new and so strange
we convinced ourselves that we were explorers
the first to take steps into an entirely new world)

now we might realize that the sun 
in his power
isn't much of a joker
and the light of day doesn't do much but describe
the simplicity of life
and how lucky we are to be spaced so perfectly between
the icarian idealism of a youth that is envied
and over valued by the old
as the eyes of the aged inevitably turn towards
boreas
the other side
whose realm is as silent as space and within is contained
all time

the secrets of youth
once treasures are found
to be costume jewelry
become comfort only
where we thought we had money in the bank

for me
at this moment
the skies are scales
bisected by the sun 
the north wind blows and goosebumps my skin
though the better part of its power was evaporated by
the heat of the fire riding the fence of my perception

i begin to feel like i remember my parents might have
when some old song that seemed to me to be
overplayed 
would come on the radio and remind them of the time
when they too were dressed in the illusion
the shadows of the morning were their cloak
and ignorance in perfect measure
was their sceptre 

when the heat of the day was tempered
by something as simple as aspect
and the air is made
for a brief time
cool