who didn’t value the strength of the tree
that sheltered her from the storms,
and instead spent her nights
lamenting over another
tree that would not bend
to cherish her near so well.
I pity the poor old bird
who knows nothing
other than playing
at being a harpy,
befouling every space
unlucky enough to know her presence.
It is clear she envies
the kestrel and her mate,
lovingly paired and partnered,
with no wingbeat taken for granted—
the kestrel who knows the joy
of the welcoming blue sky,
the stars, and rising sun,
who has flown with true companions
that were only taken from her by death,
and not driven away by spite.
I pity the poor old bird,
who when she finally falls
stiff and cold from her perch,
save for the worms
that will find plenty of room to burrow
in the cavity of her empty chest.
I hope those who hold you fondly in their mind have a true and clear image of you.
I hope you are seen clearly for who you are.
May you never look into a mirror without seeing your true face.
Song Choice: Mean by Taylor Swift and I've No More F*cks To Give by Thomas Benjamin Esq.
Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Bird is the Word.