Family of Origins

one daughter is a dark wooden table half-hidden in trees, heft of her grain sheening moist with dew;
the other a solitary bird, lover of sky, not catalogued nor seen by ornithologists for years;
the son is a rainbow under snow covered cliffs where young women and men jump and fly,
burst with glee, fulfill dreams of daring.

Snowflakes drift and plop softly
like a half written poem
from infinite blue,
cover the table,
the bird feeder, binoculars
and intricate map
to the mountain pass
where children of all stripes
play music of feeling
and eat furtive sandwiches
cut in diagonal halves.

Their smiles don't lie.
They lay on silken mats,
wear raincoats from Paris,
wait for jolly prelates
and pranksters to sing
of innocence and rain
for weathered old pennies
or quarter glasses of blood-red wine.

The painter mourns his lost children
who may have been traded
for promised adventure
during those pestilent years
of long war and fear.

His art is black and cracked
by persistent thought,
a topography laden
with strokes of thick color
heavy as mineral,
stiff and chilled,
yet resilient,
like a type of steel
used to repopulate
French families
in villages flattened
during forlorn battles
wracked by flaming siege.

Three children stand now together
in an empty pool.
It's noon under sun
and they rest
in quiet.
Each is a flower
a force
come full circle,
a thin reed waiting
to birth its own sound
composed for a father
adorned in rags
not of his making.