6. To the poet in everyone…

A song-bird beat its broken wings against
the concrete. Cars passed by and caught its
misery up and gave it death instead.

“Poor bird!
“No pity here, for birds that fly so low
and beat their wings against the earth.
They’re meant to sound the blue-sky seas
and nip the foam.

“Poor bird.
“The seer of earth can always soar
until the slave of seeds within his bowels
grows weak and brings him low to death,
his seer.”
©1959 John F. Deethardt II