As a child I was taught never
To curse the rain, no matter the floods
Or the roof blown off due to howling
Wind, indeed never mind the lost
House as long as one was alive,
To live and let live, even if night’s
Softness lay in ambush, waiting
For you to begin seeing things
No one else could see,
A subtle refraction, pure
Stupefaction – everything was
Art and the semblance of art.
Beer for breakfast, oh boy,
Or was it father reeling me in
From wilderness of strangers
At pool side.
As a child is taught to make
The sign of the cross every time
He passes a church, or to
Make three wishes when he
Visits one for the first time,
Certainly not the last three wishes
Would remain as such, to light
A candle for each passing spirit,
To see things unseen like
The blazing wildfire of
A poem’s refraction.
