The spot where I rest
you could hardly call an inn –
crate, cot and roof
staked through stone,
canvas walls to lower if they chose,
by the mailbox in Sholazar Basin.
A pavilion like this should be less permanent, and
it’s greener here than at home.
For a while, you woke me weekly
for a run at the mail
and a crack in the Oracles’ egg.
If you woke me today, each egg
would take only three days to hatch.
Half the time.
I’d see twice as many mornings,
stretch my wings twice as often,
soar twice as many times
past waterfall and rainbow to the canopy.