I once thought it would be cool
to winter in Mexico, to move
tribal toward a warmer climate,
to huddle together with myriad
cousins, but dwindling census
suggests that the time for that
It was the shadows that turned my mind
in a different direction…nothing as astute
as Plato’s Cave, Just a vision of wings fluttering,
morphing into a hand holding a pen. We are all
somewhat chained to a wall, like Plato’s people.
Maybe the pen is our wings and a feeble imagination
is our chain.
Maybe the metaphysics of monarchs
is the fittest reflection of truth and timing,
or maybe the first crocus born of a new spring
is just a lesson in faith and not really an intent of proof
for the poet or the purveyor of pens. Maybe it is true
that in time all poets will shed their chains
and grow wings.