As The Windmills And The Heavens Turn Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pageants of their blood
Sleeping like crickets in the sun;
Upon any day as new as this,
Colors of her flag flowing
After midnight and
Fireworks,
Tadpoles waiting for metamorphosis
In the tidelands of her hair;
And now I have something
Else to believe,
As we all go sleeping into the
Beds of the promises;
The day laborers, and the
Wiving loves:
The donkey carrying its savior and
Its gods,
As the windmills and the heavens turn.