None of us in that cobblestone mansion
were prepared with brooms or eulogies;
death never woke us up before,
voices still groggy from hangovers of
intrepid song.
I had often heard these birds would scrutinize
the ground as if food was virtue.
I never pondered the earth, feet tripping
on cracks and stumbling on impatience.
I had always admired the skies, thinking
if that was where birds nested in freedom,
maybe I could visit someday.
-
Do hearts smash/slam/slap window sills?
Or is it our thoughts, rain-stroked and
jolted by thunder from places
we were too cowardly to understand?
The birds have remained, feathers braided
onto our sleeves, voices teaching
these hopeless streets to keep
winding and sprouting.
(I've stopped searching above)
I must purify the path I walk
before I heed my call--my soul,
my sandals, dirty remains--
and fly
in an attempt to live a new song
for myself, and for
the birds of my past.
-
Written 9/22/14 @ 1:35 PM
This was an assignment for my poetry class. We just finished reading and studying upcoming poet CM Burroughs, and her new book "The Vital System". We had to choose one of her poems that inspired us and write one in response, didn't have to be same style or format. One of my favorites was "On Impact".
