Saturday, April 17, 2010

The bird with the broken wing

A bird fell from a maple tree,
His wing, I saw, was bent.
I meant to soothe the sorry thing,
But the thing would not relent!

I stepped away respectfully,
noting his agitation.
He'd learn to respect his wings and fear,
laws of gravitation.

I stayed, to see, not touch,
To see what the bird would do,
Had I not crossed his path,
Had I ignored him too.

He limped away to a mulberry bush,
trailing gore and glory,
His prideful little body,
nursing the injury.

Did Nature do the same for me,
In my hurt did she place pride,
so that when her children injured me,
I could heal when cast aside?

Going home

I went back to my home today,
the one I'd left behind when,
unable to endure I had,
run away to never return, again.

Later, finally grounded I
felt the need for roots and so
I upped and headed home,
having never forgotten that route.

I knocked once on my wooden door,
And then I knocked again,
I knocked until my knuckles bled,
I would not force, but neither would I bend.

An hour later, when my arm was numb,
I glared at the stout doorway,
It had never quite occurred to me
that Home could also run away.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The night

The tombstone cracks, 'tis but a stone,
I lay awake and watch it,
When the moon comes down to rob the night,
I smile at it and watch it.

Yesterday I'd cried,
Perhaps tomorrow I'll bleed,
Today is already yesteday,
Maybe tonight, I'll sleep.

And when the Sun rises to punish the moon,
I'll hide from that whiteness,
I wait for the night, I wait for its darkness,
I wait for its white thief.

Maybe tomorrow, when I'm tired of light,
I'll go out and embrace the dark,
but for now, I'll ignore the sun,
the moon shines gentler and whiter.

I touched that tombstone today,
I laughed when that cold stone crumbled,
My hand is living, I scolded myself,
It would burn through the deadened marble.

I caught a moth in the crescent night,
I seized it by its wings,
It screamed at me silently,
I smiled at its captivity.

It fluttered furiously, that speck of life,
as I observed in fascination.
Tomorrow, then, for those without it,
Is borne on fluttering wings.