He’s got a green guitar, Emerald Isle green, and his hair is snow
white now, but his voice still rings like a Tibetan bell. I don’t care
that the decades have given him
more wisdom than he had when he made us giggle and wander. He is whole
now like an oak tree. He is bent in all the right places. He has us
all waiting for a miracle. And when it comes
if it ever comes
we’ll weep and add our voices, echoing
through the coda of humanity’s tragic history, boldly declaring
the moment we are no longer
pacing this battered cage.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019