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Ode To A Brother's Wedding

The white clouds
stand as mountains,
bright in the sun,
they drift,
they wait,
for an answer.
A hand was offered
and taken
in the chaos of nature,
that which stands
as the madrone
in the mist,
or thrives in fungal
bliss beneath sodden
leaves and that
which burns a hellish
swath through all
that grows and breathes.
We've known
the human comedy,
what flimsy structures
grew with a driven nail,
what rabbit trails
vanished in the dusty
voids of betrayal.
The clouds drift
slowly in stately peace,
the gates of heaven,
where all is truth,
the river flows,
a constant monument,
a soft roar,
rapids to eddy.
We see the majesty
of all things,
hand in hand,
we say,
we're ready.

Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1250 times
Written on 2017-08-30 at 17:09