the poetry nugget

Who knew the myth of Icarus was so popular? Barely an acute angle left. So what if Icarus lived, found among the seashells on the shore, would he survive joking about wax and feathers? teasing in the classroom, in the hallways, on the bus? looking for the spines of wings in the locker room? repeating why a son should always listen to his father? Oh, to erase his folly. Yet how to be a common man, he who touched the sky. They say his words captured within the whorls of seashells, for boys who dream  to fly. He whispers take the risk, how could he not? *According to Greek mythology, Ic arus flew  too close to the sun, the wax of his wings melted a nd he fell into the  sea.

Neither tiptoes nor arms straining, I cannot reach. Like a fairy tale city with cobblestones, canals, centuries-old structures, in a gray-green haze, obscured. I am on the edge, I am on edge to touch the whispers in the margins between awake and asleep, new words, creation.

The flowers stand tall in an August heat that strangles the breath. They toss a corner of shade, flaunt themselves before the sun. In this triangle, a battle-scarred cricket  chirps  his victory over a foe. Today is their day, tomorrow,  weeds and  hardened shell.

At the start, hopefulness, sweet as honey, golden, sticky and  endless. In the midst, bees buzzing. The drones attend the Queen, the females indeed the worker bees, the brood grows. Busy, so busy, the constant beating of wings distracts. At the end, a noticeable absence of sound. The muscular arms of time press down, vision sharpens to the decay, not a glistening drop left.