Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

In the Park

akin to a lame bird
you perch on a park bench
to watch scrub jays and warblers
sprint from thin twigs
chirping tunes

at you, the lost one
who never learned to fly

then, when their songs
drift flute-like
in longing and desire
so deeply felt
into flower beds,

rose petals uncurl
to dance

but you still refuse
to move


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Prompt: April 2—birdsong