<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=350330" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Flight</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Outside my window the wasps <br>are making their slow circle, <br>dizzy flights of forage and return, <br>hovering among azaleas<br>that bob in a sluggish breeze <br>this humid, sun-torn morning.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yesterday my wife held me here<br>as I thrashed and moaned, her hand <br>in my foaming mouth, and my son <br>saw what he was warned he might.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Last night dreams stormed my brain <br>in thick swirls of shame and fear.<br>Behind a white garage a locked shed <br>full of wide-eyed dolls burned,<br>yellow smoke boiling up in huge clumps <br>as I watched, feet nailed to the ground. <br>In dining cars white table cloths<br>unfolded wings and flew like gulls. <br>An old German in a green Homburg <br>sang lieder, Mein Herz ist müde.<br>In a garden in Pasadena my father <br>posed in Navy whites while overhead<br>silver dirigibles moved like great whales. <br>And in the narrowing tunnel <br>of the dream’s end I flew down <br>onto the iron red road<br>of my grandfather’s farm.<br>There was a white rail fence.<br>In the green meadow beyond, <br>a small boy walked toward me. <br>His smile was the moon’s rim. <br>Across his egg-shell eyes<br>ran scenes from my future life, <br>and he embraced me like a son <br>or father or my lost brother.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=B.H.+Fairchild">B.H. Fairchild</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=350330" data-title="Flight de B.H. Fairchild" data-description="Outside my window the wasps are making their slow circle, dizzy flights of forage and return, hovering among azaleas that bob in a sluggish breeze this humid, sun-torn morning. Yesterday my wife held me here as I thrashed and moaned, her hand..."></div> </div> </div>

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