FOR DAVID P—B <br /> <br />The eye follows, the land <br />Slips upward, creases down, forms <br />The gentle buttocks of a young <br />Giant. In the nestle, <br />Old adobe bricks, washed of <br />Whiteness, paled to umber, <br />Await another century. <br /> <br />Star Jasmine and old vines <br />Lay claim upon the ghosted land, <br />Then quiet pools whisper <br />Private childhood secrets. <br /> <br />Flush on inner cottage walls <br />Antiquitous faces, <br />Used to the gelid breath <br />Of old manors, glare disdainfully <br />Over breached time. <br /> <br />Around and through these <br />Cold phantasmatalities, <br />He walks, insisting <br />To the languid air, <br />Activity, music, <br />A generosity of graces. <br /> <br />His lupin fields spurn old <br />Deceit and agile poppies dance <br />In golden riot. Each day is <br />Fulminant, exploding brightly <br />Under the gaze of his exquisite <br />Sires, frozen in the famed paint <br />Of dead masters. Audacious <br />Sunlight casts defiance <br />At their feet.<br /><br />Maya Angelou<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/california-prodigal/
