THIS SIDE OF SKY

Light comes round, shapes hills with shadow,
gilds the faces of tilted peaks, pyramids upcanyon
where gods must live to stay clear of the clatter –

ridge after ridge afire upon the green this side of sky
like a loose deck at dawn, glimpses of kings, queens
and knaves in the deal. O’ how my father cringed

with my selected verse, one-sided, loose leaves
bound under a clear plastic cover in limited editions
published by Xerox in the 60s – that first trip

and stumble into small press, Everyman’s magic
for a dime-a-copy. I liked the look, but his reviews,
couched and pillowed between long breaths,

did not detour nor inspire me, though troubled him
as perhaps it should have in those days of Republicans
and young men in a long jungle war. Say good-bye

to the Draft, once the sword, become the disambiguation
of governments, we have evolved to mercenaries
and drones, there are no kids to mow our lawns –

clean-cut, grown-ups now, running for offices.
He would be happy with my pastoral imagery,
lift an eye, grin a little at the pantheistic,

yet remembering when he drug me out of bed,
by the toe, to show me the Kaweah steaming
among cottonwoods, a colored mist rising.

                                                                for David Wilke