Monarch of the Morning
I saw him there in the morning cool,
a pale sage bush his morning stool,
silent, asking with a roar,
which of us deserved it more;
it was his place—he made that plain—
and if I, foolish, should remain,
I must acknowledge all his right
to be there in the morning bright,
so willingly I acquiesced
in such opinion so expressed
and left him in possession there
for nothing else would I dare–
it was his place, it was his then,
that jaunty little cactus wren.
Family
she was over thirty,
plain as she was old,
favorite of her father,
something of a scold;
he was nearly forty,
unbeloved by fate,
last left on the homestead,
happy with his state;
somewhere one November
lonely led the two
on a star-sharp evening
to try a something new–
then there was a sudden,
then there was a fall,
though neither loved the other,
no neither one at all,
but such were then the seasons,
such were then the times,
not accommodated,
close akin to crimes,
so then upon the new year
a brand-new tale was coined,
the spinster and the farmer
awkward bound and joined,
till in the midst of August
affection found its face
and for the rest of living
buried all disgrace–
all this no puny purpose,
in the scheme of memory,
from this unplanned connection
came a family.
J. A. Wagner holds a Ph.D. in history from Arizona State University and has taught classes in British and American history at Arizona State and Phoenix College. A retired editor, he has published a dozen reference works in English and European history. He splits his time between Wisconsin and Arizona.
Sparks of Calliope 