Rocking Chair Musings | Carlyle R. Phelps

Rocking Chair Musings:

To wit, a plume of fire-orange red, notes atop a green-yellow stage—
A quiet morning, save that tuning from the dogwood’s bloom;
To wit, an evocative song, written in the heart of quilled plumage,
Easily mistaken for a Beethoven using the “Cardinal” non de plume.

A flit, a spark, a wick-ed flame—my smoke dances to the refrain
Of the song God wrote on the lungs of the grosbeak conclave.
A college we could learn from, what with beauty modestly retained—
Surpassing canvas and string, within a truly singular enclave.

A pitch forward, a rock back—I observe the concert on curved slats.
The danseur sautés from my right, stage left, to the rising spotlight.
With finery more compelling than a southern belle’s derby hats,
I’m in awe—no struggle or facade, being makes its burdens light.

Shaming all the grand gestures of pride we have to offer,
The tiny cardinal humbly persists, obeying the universal Author.

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