Grief
Even now, mornings come.
Summer butterflies, dumb
beauty bugs rip the sun
and tear the tear from me.
And I shall be a blast
of winter coming fast
and fast shall fix them fast
and freeze their fickle wings.
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Words of My Father 
Jonathan (son #3) said,
14 September 2006 at 4:16 pm
My stepmother died in 1996. I believe this poem was written as an expression of his sorrow and anger. The alliteration and the homographs are classic Norman.
bloglily said,
16 September 2006 at 5:35 pm
And I shall be a blast/of winter coming fast/and fast shall fix them fast/and freeze their fickle wings.
That’s an amazing stanza. Something about this reminds me of Lear.
Like Q, I’m so glad to see these!