Day 29
Everybody knows that September is the month for dying
& October for being born. It's already November,
already another number past the biblical midpoint,
another pile of pages past the midterm,
& again the worry of a wasted life
still hammock free & temporarily hawkless.
What do birds know about disillusion anyhow,
that they show up to ghost a disenchanted morning?
What do they know of misplaced dreams,
ill-timed despair, or the hunger of another plan?
They know the migratory urge, the seasonal pangs,
the Attic need to roost, nest, dally, & fly.
This is November. I know this feeling welling:
not regret exactly, but reproach, a weariness
of purpose that never works out as planned.
Is it that November is the polar twin of May:
the return of illusion with the migrating birds?
If only it was as simple as lift, flap, & glide.
Then again what do birds know about deadlines,
about stacks of unloved paper-hearted words,
about rushed poems that cannot find their ends?
Love the photo, really love the poem. The third stanza is perfection. I think this poem might be one of my favorites for this whole challenge, and that's saying something.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sticking with it. I hope you found it worth it after all.