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Poetry
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| Original Sin (Personal Instance) | |
| By andybyers | ||||||
| 27 August 2007 | ||||||
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Kind he was and grandfather (not mine, so grandfatherly) Set to be inoffensive Iron-firm, silver-haired like a man on TV A mighty orchid and I, a happy bee And I loved, too the little stream that carved his land (imagine! to own a stream!) like hot fudge across an ice cream plain Fascinated: the little paddle wheel he'd made held by rocks a toy that turned and turned, spun by nature I dared, like Prometheus I touched it; it broke tipped from its stones and stopped I ran Cried Hid Fearful he knew (how could he not?) Imagining his rage (how could he forgive?) Dreading his hate, I never returned Did he wonder, where's the bee? When he fixed the wheel, as surely he did, in seconds, did he do it for me, wanting it to be right for my enjoyment? I never looked him in the eye again. Afraid to be penitent Short-selling his mercy I robbed us both.
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