Atlanta was consumed
By fire:
On a march to the sea.
Yet rose,
Grander,
Capital, they say:
The New South.
That is one type of transition.
There are others.
In South Africa
They transition,
Warily,
From white to black.
The transition is a dance
Done on a balance beam.
Consuming fire below.
No margin for error.
He must have been watching.
Land of his birth.
You can take the boy out of Africa –
Yet, does Africa live within?
The Chieftain Sits.
Buddha like – though they know no Buddha.
Half man/Half God,
For he was present at the creation.
Now, fair enough, yearns to follow—
Ponce De Leon, the Fountain of Youth:
A new bride. A Gulf wide.
One last ceremony.
The place is fitting: An Olympic city.
Crowned the transition,
From Tara to tomorrow.
In the races the runners
Make transitions too.
Pass the baton
To a new age.
John-John is married now.
I was in a playpen when the T.V. blared:
“The President has been shot.”
The President had said:
“The torch has been passed.”
And so it has.
by Jim Prevor