The Dead Bird In My Garden Poem by Leslie Philibert
The Dead Bird In My Garden
Shock, without motion you are a
Caricature of flight, a dry purse
Filled with small stones, bonesticks
In a bag, misplaced.So I must hide my
Hands in garden gloves, strange with
Earthsweat and hardened from rain.
And when I carry you on a spade it is a
Burial second-class. And when you move,
Question; is it the tremor of may own
Forearms, or are you ready for flight,
Still full of air?
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4/18/2024 8:02:43 PM # 1.0.0.1119
