This poem was written for Ron Jenkins

Nothing Chanced

Raising voices of trusted safety
Opened my mind to glaring holes
Noted once, then used as souls
Justice opened a raked bee.

Enhanced by age volume peaked
Nesting on past deeds, acts freaked
Kites billowed lazily in spring clouds
Insects crested my tiny soles aloud.

Nothing chanced a dream is lost
Scorning is my hesitant cost
Rising above a small vacant lot
Jerking free I become the moth.

Robert Dodson
March 12, 2007