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Zuzu Tadeushuk

On one miscarriage of the wind

blew the chaff of the creation seed

carried by a firefly and emptied

by accident

to spawn a race of slow beasts in the mud.

Sun beat down on them and

was bounteous

and its falling firedrops

beaded on their eyelashes,

its scorching waves of age-old breath tickled

their mangy chests,

its rising and its setting

twixt four beech-gold horizons, 

kindled in their furnace-breasts

a bellowing joy that fit 

their ancient, shivering dreams.

Sun-loving, they knew much more than we.


Now the sun dies on the rocky horizon

not lingering but fading, fading,

till it no longer washes this melt-stained planet face

with guild.

I want to shatter the leagues

of distance that stretch between here and the stars,

and stroke the warm orbs that bless our birth 

and kiss the twinkling benevolent eyes

that survey our souls in death.