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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535707" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Turning Thighs To Diamonds</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son<br>shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No blame shall stain us now, father.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught, <br>a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.<br>Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.<br>Each base of cardboard weighted with stone<br>is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt, <br>hard rules of the game, mean to undo all <br>lust for dark heaven which shuns shining girls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender<br>boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what<br>was given and what was to come, a softball between the<br>eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond<br>thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **<br>I am your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I am fat<br>and cannot round the bases quick. I am your inherited meek, <br>a burden to shake into a sliding man furious for home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At four I pluck a wild strawberry you point to, <br>all authority and accidental grace, revealing much, <br>still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness<br>deserving my frown. You laugh at my dawning smile<br>for its sweetness slowly yields, a surprise gift for<br>what will always unite us, your fear that I will suffer, <br>too, your fate, untended desire gone to wildness<br>brought low beneath branches, slow embrace of<br>cradle-gentle boughs entangling legs and light<br>between the greater shadows, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and shadows shall win the day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In them my yearning grows yet, remains for that of edges, <br>what is beyond them, or beneath, for planets arcing and<br>comets rare, trailing lovers to come but meteors, not the <br>appointed stars of permanence allowed to some men's hands, <br>and never to the fallen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still, these essential things are caught<br>for all our mostly wasted days of practice, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">wild sweetness is a stolen base, <br>the tongue is an untended garden.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a burning soft hands can know<br>which shall finally run some headlong<br>for home at the end, an inherited circle, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">**Dandelion</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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<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=535707" data-title="Turning Thighs To Diamonds de Warren Falcon" data-description="Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9

No blame shall stain us now, father.

The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught, 
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
M..."></div>
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