A Windows Machine

Clouds stained and stretched

Like overlapped, pulled thin

Butterfly wings pinned

Around the rolling-silk,

Last-light-of today sun

As it leaks to pale skins after

Sheets of April-vengeance hail.

I’m sitting at a windows machine

Wondering if I can believe the numbers;

Take the cold carborundum pressures.

Here, I truly believe, we could plant,

Could surely grow, might sustain Paradise:

Legacy, pass-along gardens that would

Proudly carry standards out of history

… into the future.