It is not the man who falters
But always the boy who ends up flying too close to the sun.
And we do not always leap from a tower
To begin our fall, but sometimes we step silently out the back door of a house
While Daedalus sips on his coffee
And discusses his garden.
And it is within the garden
That the flowers and vegetables falter
In the feeble soil. The boy’s hands are stained a coffee
Color from kneading mud in the hot sun.
He does this for play, imagining he is building a house
With his buckets and shovels. He builds towers
And spires that rise and tower
Above the withering plants of the garden.
The cool embrace of the house
Calls him, but the boy dos not falter
From his work. He toils in the sun
With his mug of water, pretending he is sipping coffee
Like his father, who sipped his coffee
Silently in the shade of the deck. But the towers
Fell and the boy began his task once more in the hot sun
Of the summer afternoon. This garden
Was his land– his domain to oversee. And if something even so little as an ant were to falter
From their rightful duty, he would topple their house
Of dust and replace it with his own man-made house
Of grandeur and excess. But long gone are the days of coffee
And mud piles. He has faltered
From his course: left the safety of the tower.
He has chosen to be banished from the garden.
Like a son
Of Cain he flees from what he is. Still, he flies too close to the sun.
So, his wings melt, and like the fallen angel he is, he crashes to the earth away from his home.
Away from his past. Away from his father’s garden.
Away from the quiet sipping of coffee,
And away from the tower
That encased his life. Again, it is always the boy that falters.
And as he jumped he could feel his legs falter and give way under the weight. But he gazed at the sun
And lept from his tower. Never to return to the embrace of his home
And the time of sipping coffee and staining his hands in the mud of his father’s garden.