Migrants

Migrants

Our feathered friends spread wings,
Their light-filled heads lean southward.
We notice the leaden silence of our days,
Their cheeriness buried in our breasts
Urging us to upward voices
Our poor forms unable to take flight
Song is all we have.


August 2009

Edward Kennedy

Teddy ("Nothing to it.")

" Nothing to it."
A colossus sometimes blocking out the sun.
His brilliant teeth a keyboard of possibilities.
His hand pressing a shoulder firmly,
Urging belief in Hope,
Although only achieved with pick and shovel.
"It's there for the taking."
"Just got to push away the debris."
"Trust me,
I know each place where Hope is buried."
"DIG, DIG, DIG."


August 2009