Little-winged child,
how did you plunge
from your green tower
only to be swallowed
by the growth below?
Was it the wind,
flimsy and careless,
that picked you
like an apple
far from the tree?
Perhaps an imposter,
grown bigger than you,
tipped your future
from the sticks
to the cold ground.
Mother, had you
forsaken this chick?
Brother the better bet
and a fitter use
for your hard work?
Little-winged child,
may you rest in the riverbed,
a catalyst for new life,
though yours was too short.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoetryPoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
