Poem: Song

by John Ciardi

The bells of Sun­day rang us down
And flow­ers were blow­ing across the town
Through faucets of the sun turned on.
For Mary’s gig­gle and Martha’s glance
The bankrolls flashed from pants to pants,
The Cap­tain did a High­land dance.
Oh, there were troops in every door,
And liquor spilled on every floor,
And when the sun became a bore
We turned it off and hung a star,
For we were beau­ti­ful and far
And all the papers spoke of war.
And all night long from win­dow sills
The Angels beck­oned and the bills
Of visors turned and made their kills.
We burned like kiss­es on the night,
And tal­ent­ed and drunk and bright
We shed our­selves in col­ored light.
Because the train was at the gate,
And clocks were clos­ing down the date,
And all seas were run­ning late.

(From The War Poets)

Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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