When flowers brightly splashed all nature's canvas,
Unbruised by mars of care or time,
And garden-shoots ignored the far-off harvest,
Even then he sat,
And felt just fine.
This boy walked across the wood-planks,
Across the cranky, squeaking boards,
Then unfurled the crackly pages,
Reading, doublechecking,
Squinting at the tiny words.
The soft blue walls were crossed by woven shadow,
So he closed three window blinds,
He scythed the shade with dark'ning blades,
Locking out the lighted meadow,
And its merry winds.
Flourescent lamp reflected, frowned, and glowered
At the intently gazing youth
Who mixed and poured illumined fluid,
Making double-sure
There was no froth.
Beam and twig he dipped into his potion,
He laid them, twined, on styrofoam.
He slowly placed balsamic fragments,
Yet unaware, yet undistracted
By the growing gloam.
He wrapped his wooden web of twig on beam on bar,
Then tightened it with liquid drips.
The patient panda sitting, pillowed,
Watched his endless work
As if affixed.
Ages later, when the sun was not so joyful,
And the trees quivered with a fearful sigh,
A little boy sent forth an offering;
A glist'ning token
Took to sky.
When earth had rushed too-quick to play,
And reveled short with too-frail things,
This boy sat and worked by day.
He was building wings.