The first pie I ever made in my life was rhubarb.
It seemed to turn out perfectly.
Mom directed me.
I remember proudly presenting it to Nana at the supper table.
She declared that it was the best rhubarb pie she ever tasted.
She was old. I was 14.
I never thought of death when I was young,
And even then, without my knowing it,
Saw the world with a poet’s eye.
Even then the muse and the sylvan sprite were my companions,
And the clouds though which I dreamed,
The fields and meadows through which I walked,
And the forest that held my secret places,
Showed me a world beyond the world
That disguised itself as the reality
From which only my dreaming could save me.
Dragon’s teeth glow through the morning mists
in the rising of the sun, and
Through the vale the river winds.
A breath of mystery hovers, scented,
and as the mists burn away,
the trees begin to dance of their timelessness,
and to whisper of things to come,
and in the crystal light shining,
the dragon’s treasure sparkles.
Why wasn’t I a pilot,
Or a traveller like I thought I would,
Or a studio artist as I had hoped.
I would have seen my masterpieces by now.
What about a travel writer, or a spy,
Or an interpreter for the United Nations.
Languages intrigued me, Spanish, French,
And oddly enough, German.
Italian intrigues me now.
I did my part in the French Resistance.
That was another life.
Why is my masterwork as yet undone.
Why wasn’t I a bird.
Maybe next time.