Scotch taped prayers
dot plaster walls of gray bungalow
Behind doors, above beds,
petitions hang like pressed
summer flowers
Pól writes his finest love song
Sings it daily in radiated ears of his mother

Humming a song her daddy taught her
Katie pushes her toe against a cloud
“I’ll fly away, Oh Glory…I’ll fly away”
She swings higher and higher
stretching pint-sized legs
toward the top of the sky

On stretches of cosmos
Alejandro paints copper suns
from his cube of apartments
ether fragments
of warp and weft light
weave chords that ring bell

The old Colonel runs finger
‘round aqua glass, catching
final golden drop from last jar
of peaches his wife canned
Honeyed shades of her quiet songs
pulse once more like glucose
through his veins, he sings

A neighbor’s Christmas lights
scuttle across rooftop in July
Random trails slapdash shingles
like slug patterns
Still, mourning doves coo
three-note trinities
above kitschy red bulbs

We all fly away, we all fly away…

– Sharon Frye

© 2015, poem, Sharon Frye, All rights reserved

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