By Maya Angelou
FOR DAVID P—B
The eye follows, the land
Slips upward, creases down, forms
The gentle buttocks of a young
Giant. In the nestle,
Old adobe bricks, washed of
Whiteness, paled to umber,
Await another century.
Star Jasmine and old vines
Lay claim upon the ghosted land,
Then quiet pools whisper
Private childhood secrets.
Flush on inner cottage walls
Antiquitous faces,
Used to the gelid breath
Of old manors, glare disdainfully
Over breached time.
Around and through these
Cold phantasmatalities,
He walks, insisting
To the languid air,
Activity, music,
A generosity of graces.
His lupin fields spurn old
Deceit and agile poppies dance
In golden riot. Each day is
Fulminant, exploding brightly
Under the gaze of his exquisite
Sires, frozen in the famed paint
Of dead masters. Audacious
Sunlight casts defiance
At their feet.
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I have both my boys home at the moment, albeit briefly, since Adam is leaving for beach week on Saturday morning and spent Friday morning getting himself ready while I worked on a review of Deep Space Nine's legendary episode "Far Beyond the Stars". Then we had lunch with Paul before Adam went to run a Burrito Mile with friends -- run a mile to Chipotle, eat a burrito, run back -- and the rest of us went to pick up Daniel from his summer job in College Park.
I briefly saw a bunny, but my plan to take a longer walk was disrupted by my tablet insisting on running a bunch of updates that required reboots and new passwords and things that took until dinner was ready. We all ate together, then we all watched Free Enterprise because the kids had not seen it and we all love The Shatner. It's pretty sexist but no worse than many more contemporary nerd culture celebrations. Cats we saw at Longwood Gardens last month:
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