The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

January 17, 2005

the rest of it

the watcher of skies is always there
soaring so high in the ice-cold air
we go into her cage and live in her lair
her beak is so strong, her feathers so fair
to see such a sight is indeed now quite rare
my fingers ungloved, my skin was quite bare
she knew i was safe and handled with care
my life and my love, we made quite a pair
we have taken our memories far to pare
so we leave nothing for our new-found heir
although i give her food, a hare
she'll swallow, and oft-thanks and with ne'er
a murmur to deer or bear
or thought to try a shirt of hair
or something charming else to wear
for even a wager or sometimes a dare
with her feathers red-tipped, and her dinner fare
delightful and lovely, and delicious e'er
she whispers and waits for another ware
that comes in the winters so cold and so sair
you'd find her preening without a tear
(though she missed the witch project of blair)
(though the trumpets blew and the horn did blare)
(though she'd ride the stallion and even the mare)
(though she'd weigh them all with a well-balanced tare)
(though they'd leave her now forever-mair)
(though they'd come back for the golden pear)
(though they found it strange and well-a-bit quair)
while we wait in the wings for our coming share.


Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.