First out was birdsong
as many nested near the top
of the hard chestnut tree my little brother climbed.
Up and up the crooked ladder branches.
Always arms and legs ahead of me.
I imagined the chestnuts as musical notes
juggled to compose the grand opus being played
a' la pastoral, ode to joy.
A song of ascents like the psalms of David
stepping on the shoulders then the heads of idols.
The giant and the far ones.
Sun, moon and stars.
Next out, the whoosh of air
from our lungs
as we wished for an elevator to heaven
and gravity's rainbow shone on the earth
while perspiration rained on our faces.
We danced with clouds an Irish reel.
A lovely, lively song
alto vamping gently behind
the lead steel guitar in the band
until it finally soloed.
Growing higher and thiner
then, like a will-o-the wisp was gone.
Gone like smoke over a falls.
My picture book mind still sees the tree I speak.
My pockets full of chestnut ammunition
to drop and crater like kamikaze meteors
my brother's bald, round moon pate.
Golden leaves his laughter floating down
in golden showers.
My gaze aloft, always aloft
casting to reel in crowns of light
and majestic eagles.
Jesus praised his father
for hiding his teachings from the wise.
His pleasure to surprise little children with.
Oh dear and oh my!
Only children and their creator savior can see
love and sunshine venting
through the stretched and open arms of a tree.
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