frost on the tire

something comes from nothing
and the morning sprites, how
they light upon life with the
aplomb of kings to their thrones.

a child's bike laid on its side,
and within morning's reaches,
recumbent and receiving
her blessings of life-loss.

something comes from something
and the child who left the
bike upon the grass is asleep,
dreaming of something blue or green.

i have left a lot upon
the table, and allowed it to
speak to me from its history
to the point of distraction.

i have seen left things and
have mourned the loss of them,
only to realize later that they
gave to me what they should.

i walked around the bike
to gain a higher perspective,
to change from the lower view,
and perhaps change myself from me,

but came back around to the
lower, to inspect the frost on
the tire, to marvel with opened eyes
at the spectacle of descent.

how the autumn augers in,
strips the colors, makes way
for the princes of winter
and the crawl of demise.

something comes from itself and
the child who let go of the bike will awake
wiser, and will be something of a mystery
in how she looks to these eyes.

frost on the tire
this early in the morning says
to this father, 'Be unto the world
less wicked to oneself.

'love the evolution of the
child and let go the emulsions
that separate you from you.'

frost on the tire
will scatter with the rising sun
the way crickets dance from
my feet when out for a walk,

and the child will gather up
her bicycle and ride it
for a time before snow flies
in from the west with

winter on its hurried heals,
and things will wait 'til spring,
things will wait,
and i will be older

and so will she
but better so, for me.