I never grow old, always stay
cute, blond, curly, the hero's
son, famous as the silver skin
of Papa's Spirit of St. Louis
winging from New York to Paris.


Taken in early March, a homemade
ladder up to my bedroom window.
March came in like a lion.

I cannot say who silenced me,
my body hidden under leaves,
a quarter-size hole in my skull.

Dogwood blossoms.

Christopher T. George