Archive
09/18/08 - (3)
Poet and Egret
Egret, egret, you great white egret, You strange, gawky, ungainly giraffe of a bird, Standing there, just up the shore from my dock, On those glossy black stalks that seem anchored in concrete, All of you motionless, save for that elongated neck, Ending in a yellow-billed head, with surveillant eyes, Sweeping ceaselessly, like a lighthouse beacon.
Egret, egret, what kind of an existence is this, That you pass your hours, in stasis, isolation, Waiting for something to transpire, catch your attention, Cause you to spurn inertia, Set those stems in motion, release those wings, Take flight, in search of life's vital inklings? Could it be that, in you, I see more than a semblance of me?
09/18/08 - (3)
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