It has the proper format, the proper power
of a noon sung psalm.
We children of the imploring when?
asked to ask, and ask again
what will a proud will never allow?
Watch a son of song with a kind face
ignite envy in stately men
who plan a calendar’d embrace
with ease-filled futures, and ill-kept vows.
The women heavy with canceled longing
have misplaced their perfect tears somehow--
still these plants make
a garden of themselves
and with the one true crown, crown.
For my father read me tales of elves,
laid in bed with me,
a father sent from eternity for me
who took off the shelves for me
pages flash-dipped in the real imaginary
the stuff hearts hold in books
with magic rings, wizards horrible
and beautiful things,
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord