By Briggitta
Think of birds, think of freedom,
of sky motes seen as sun flashes,
dark confetti burst from a bush
swirled by confusion and loosed
to scatter in celebration of flight.
Think of lazy circles,
of feathered kites ignorant of tethers
intent on their own designs
oblivious to all hunger
but their own, once sated,
briefly forgotten.
Think of the quick eye,
quicker dive or stretch to pluck
a life, a seed, a berry or nectar
from its own providing niche.
The gatherer of grass and twigs
in the business of instinct.
But not my own beauties.
They have never flown the sky,
bathed in rain or gathered a nest.
They are for me, not as evolution
intended, but for my own selfish want
that turned freedom to opulence
and flight to convenience.
2001 Briggitta
(All Rights Reserved)
Email
