OF BIRDS
Sparrows everywhere.
Sparrows everywhere.
Not a purple finch,
Nor a bluebird.
Poets everywhere.
Poets everywhere.
Am I a purple finch,
Or a bluebird?
I want to fly farther
And longer
Than the other birds
In my flock,
But maybe there is room
For more birds
Of various plumage
On Mount Parnassus.
I shouldn’t
Be so egocentric,
But an oeuvre
Has a missionary’s impact–
I’m out to convert
The nonbelievers
Who don’t like poetry
Or emotions at all.
Mountains are lonely.
There is, after all,
A bit of a blue-white night heron
In everyone.