The March of Choice

 



Faces change with weekends in the country,
as quick as when the lightning strikes in sequels,
and like an obelisk in sand erosion,
before and after, stranger and a prequel.

When drum sets thunder, know it’s our parade,
can of worms or lucky seven stars,
shooting in succession past a rainbow
tying it in knots, remaining ours  

There’s not a dry glance after all the rain,
lucky we’re adjacent to the tissues,
fragile as the window, hitting porcelain;
refracting all the lemons of its issues.

A march of choice, of Spring and acquiescing,
the faces looked familiar in the light,
warm with every homecoming we left here,
even warmer, by the fall of night.