Into the wind they sail
like paper airplanes,
afloat on the molecules of moisture,
and then they come soaring down
into puddles of mud
and stained with grass.
They doted on the child
who was born with golden hair,
eyes of innocence,
red apples at lunch and a banquet –
a table set for dinner-
he was dressed, the fitting image
of his father and mother
betraying the ways of kings.
He was learned in words, within words
quoted in memorandums stored within
the vastness of his brain cells.
From the wind they return
like boomerangs,
darting across the atoms of life
they come soaring down
in front of my feet.
1970s
Anne's mediocre poetry 