The Grey Goose Flies

Grey Goose flies high in the calm Skyy,

Plunge dives into shallow water.

The Old Fashioned must rectify:

No oasis dry, Globetrotter!

Sun streaks beaming by cough and cry,

In reach of Coal Miner’s Daughter.

With countenance wry, obscures eye;

Mirage — turned fruitless — trails hotter.

———

Beneath sun’s grin, brittle mudcrack

Breaks and spills some aged Summer Wine.

Dirt-rimmed libations tend to lack

The rock salt that these Patrons mind.

No rains yet cactoid blooms come back,

Loft aromas that seldom shine.

Crisscrossed seams — woven as Racetrack;

We’ve the Last Word, ‘hind past design.

———

The Lost Coast of this homeland sows

Each pebble strewn by one-tined rakes,

Helping times’ sands turn dawn; then blows

Glass of hour’s last shore that wakes.

Grey Goose — conscious of overflows

That rivers inundate — sees lakes.

Damned Spirits edge the desert rose

Amid the hopes that the Spring Breaks.

———

Find what ails, breathe next day’s breath.

Taste the sweet Ambrosia, commence!

For Blood and Sand — is hell and death;

Borrowed Time burns quick like incense.