Even a pandemonium of crows
erupting from morning's quiet
cannot disturb this clear pool
of sky rippling gently
across memories of you Chris,
wearing your new crewcut
courtesy of our pops' barber clippers
on summertime's patio
and grinning through corncob
teeth as you dip your whole fist
into the cardboard box of Wheat Thins
like cherished treasure here
in our postage-stamp backyard
blooming with dad's roses and mom's
clothesline and that wall of dusty ivy pilfered
from Jefferson's home high on a hill
in a place you'll never visit
called Monticello.
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