It’s the last week of National Poetry Month. I’m sorry I’m late, and I’m sorry this is a short entry and I’m sorry it’s rather a sad one. In honor of the baby birds I see broken on the sidewalk at this time of year:
Ode to a Baby Bird By Michelle Garren-Flye It’s that time of year when baby birds fall from the nest and lay helpless on the ground with broken wings or neck because they tried, Daedalus-like, to fly too close to the sun too early and the gods laughed—and then they panicked. Because if a baby bird learns to fly too well and too early She may become a god, so they smite her back to the ground. Is it better this way for the baby birds lying in balls of fluff On the unkind ground that did not provide a soft enough landing? They never knew love or fun or the thrill of the flight (except for that one all-too-brief moment before the fall began). But they also never knew the unkind world where hateful gods refuse them the skies just because they’re jealous of pretty plumage.