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The Doomed Birds |
Replacement,
without a cue,
to insist on direction;
a hurdle, traction
demarcating a lasting need,
errant feathers,
crumbly rock,
milkweed in bloom,
viceroy? monarch? fluttering near by -
such a favored moment.
One instinctual swat, one less favored beetle,
and then there are, just like us, the doomed birds,
and this is only a flicker;
a weathered interior, trespasser trespassed upon lorded over
where mud is best
left
as a mad hatter's bed.
A flirtation with
a junk jinxed
afternoon of mood swings
rivaling yesterday's music,
digressed,
rejuvenated,
and all that can
step around, hunker down,
but, see!, blessed
the coming on of wind
through the waist high grass,
a largeness to an owl's approach,
a hornbeam's harbinger,
more than seed, than samara, than cone.
Residual need
more than twitch
from stick to stone
to gadfly's bite -
Flee?
Has someone not already gone?
Refuge that offers no cover.
Still, an unconquerable wind.
Sheeted,
and, folded, night foils
my smallest concern,
elaborate, indifferent as dead skin.
copyright 2014
Frank
Praeger |
