old beggars under sacks

what we remember are the oddest things
a face in the audience the sharp intake of breath
the glimmer of sunlight on a bright bird's wing
the face becoming a flat mask in death
not the long moments of quite simple joy
laughter provoked by artifice or trick
the skills that artful older ones employ
to soften blows or dull the pain from kick
instead we gaze at trickles of daylight
limit our vision to the printed shade
keep our minds fixed in an internal night
reassure ourselves the sun's only delayed
the adult makes himself by act of will
the child though sees his kite above the hill