You see the world through eyes so tiny that
a leaf’s an ocean; or, at least, a lake.
You are Sir Wing Flash, flitting royal gnat
and likely you will never write a book
or draw a sketch, or sing except for buzz,
but you’re my hero, nonetheless.
A breeze, a gust,
and now your whirl is gone; replaced
by empty sunlight. Here, amidst birch trees,
I ponder your quick-winged, spin legacy;
fine master of blue air, big crowd, flight pace.
I have a sense you know geometry!
Your concentricities in air amaze.
© Lee Slonimsky, 2023
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