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My parents just moved from my childhood home in the rural outskirts of Austin to one of the city's new gated communities. It's the type of home that they've always wanted (and deserved) so I'm happy for them but sad to lose the countless forts, secret paths, and buried treasures kept hidden by the seemingly endless acres of unclaimed copse that bordered our backyard.
From their move, this week's Springtime poetry special on A Prairie Home Companion, and my first viewing of the excellent 1973 film, The Wicker Man, I've been onset with a strange tenderness for youthful pagan revelry. Chris (of Car Stereo Wars), Christie, and I have a weekly writing club wherein each of us reads aloud different essays, short stories, scripts, et al. that we've been working on. This week I chose to read a poem:
What the skull-boys discovered, in summery lastingness
Agape boulevards locked in directionless tidewater,
Came about in May
In the pregnancy of the camps, wooden swords, and abashed breasts
Where they couldn't speak
until appeared clover begging their cloven hooves to stumble deeper into theater
Was a path unobstructed by prose
that could never be bankrupted