A prompt: “It never reaches earth except as ashes” from Robert Frost’s A Loose Mountain.
Icarus aimed high
A modern sort of man, filled with ambition
Intent, calculating, planning,
most definitely achieving.
If they had had a Wall Street, he would have fitted right in.
But, no Wall Street,
And Hercules already had the strong market cornered
Apollo clearly understood grooming,
In its many senses.
So there with not a lot left, he dreamed of the sun.
Maybe not a financier go-getter
Maybe lying on sun-warmed grass
Idly scratching where the hay had got under his chiton
Hearing chirps and chitterings.
He dreamed about flying sky high, beyond the chattering.
A watching blue-jay startled from its pecking
A gull wheeled and yawed on a drift of wind
A goose whonk-ed, quark-ed, beating easy elegant wings
Icarus too, flew, beyond his care.
Beyond reality. Dreams never reach the earth except as ashes.