Chances Poem by Taylor Graham
Chances
These are the birds who nest
in our chimneys,
bundling combustibles
where the draft
sucks flame. Or,
in a ramshackle weave
of sticks and string,
hang their breakable young
on a high thin twig
over nothing.
And if the birdlings grow
to any weight and feather,
they show them, by flapping
of parent wings,
one has only to outstep the edge
to fly.
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4/25/2024 12:14:26 PM # 1.0.0.1119
