Count my feathers and judge me
Then pluck out several more
because I fall short
Don't you know that I make this home
for you?
I use scraps of myself for your comfort
I am mostly scrap
Whatever good there is in me
is in my function, not my form
I am a trifle
I can't even escape this place
where the sun is wrong-
bright but not warm-
and night comes, not gently,
but with a thunderous cloud of sudden darkness
It is a wonder
that I sing at all
but I suppose instinct
overcomes intellect
and you are easily entertained
by meaningless cheer.
submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Weds. With Peggy, Point of View and Place
*
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen
