Turn

Somewhat like an old sunflower

I conned a bee the livelong day

and dark the night and tossed was i,

tossed and bowed by beating heart,

battered by windstorm head to root;

humbled by the night, i become

a face-turn now towards the sun.

Day

When golden sun arises in the fields

my shadow falls onto the West,

rapidly I am tall

- but then shorter

and shorter

as form

turns

to

zero

at midday

- when my outline

sputters and travels out

into the falling, aching East

and I arise again, full, disappear.

According to Wordsworth, the child is father of the man

although I will avoid reflected light

turning from my mirror again, again

because I know I’m headed for midnight;

a little rest and a little more pain.

A heart that flows a river’s what I see;

(my tiny life is dropping down the drain)

- not knowing who I am or who I’ll be -

although my son loves mirrors like a Star,

sees himself as Elvis, Danny, he

adores his own reflection, avatar;

knows that power’s rising to a height

with alchemy of joy - and jollity -

polishing the mirror, burning bright,

although I will avoid reflected light.

Andrew knows

that when he smiles he can’t lose

his little life, a given gift,

and when he smiles, he will include

folks on the right and on his left

as if we’re all relying on

a simple little theory that

angel, ape, enlightened man

without a smile’s a dot, a mote.

Around the dinner table, he’s

holding gaze; attention of

his friends, his mates and yes, he knows

the great effect a smile can have;

suggesting ‘there is joy and peace’

with mouth and eyes for people in a race.