Marjorie Power Return Crawled out of the woodwork as the saying goes. Last I knew he was a peacock, tail spread wide. He seems to need me now—not something he chose but a weed of truth sprung from the death of pride. Last I knew he was a peacock, tail spread wide. I left his yard, doubt that he noticed or cared. A weed of truth sprung from the death of pride: who’d foresee this, in soft summer air? I left his yard, doubt that he noticed or cared. In time I forgot him altogether and he, me, I’d have guessed, in soft summer air. (In time the world went mad. We lost forever.) In time I forgot him altogether. Life lost its punctuation, its gentler tones. Many lost heart, remembering forever. In every new glass house a supply of stones. Life lost its punctuation, its gentler tones. Still, a fresh breeze floats through his request of me. In every new glass house a supply of stones. He brings a chance to counter that. So I agree. I receive bedraggled feathers for my task. He seems to need me now—not something he chose but he can’t fly and it doesn’t hurt to ask. Crawled out of the woodwork as the saying goes.
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