Dewdrops and Daffodils and Ducklings All Play

In the absence of the mockingbird,

I am feckless in the pleasure

of a sweet songbird’s prayer.

Tone deaf to a world

that cannot hear the emotion of the only breath I take anyway.

Huh.

Not even the raven,

with her sad, solemn caws that scratch at the mind like a feral bobcat,

could stir even a word

to break from between my chapped lips.

Dry and brittle and decaying like a misplaced mirage.

Though, perhaps,

I could be the baby dove of a woodwind gadget.

And if I could,

I would imagine it to be majestic and grand,

but vintage in its charm and flesh –

sailing under the opposite of my wing that carries my heart’s little fiddle.

So simple is this time,

here and now,

yet, I’ve never so desperately needed my own self

more than in this moment

that I am drowning in presently.

Just spare me from the commands of that cardinal

who sneers at me from upon his fancy branches!

Do not let him peck at my naked toes!

For when he is spiritless

in his mockery of an agitation

onto the ugly and destitute,

(the ones unlike him),

an energized, triangular bombing-pattern details itself,

headfirst,

into an unopened storyline

of an adventure that awaits beyond this time.

The mockery that echoes

has dumbfounded me

as I misguided myself into a daffy paranoid state yet again once more.

So,

I will not fear my ascendence -

it is, of course, a fanciful dream sung out for me

that will only be awakened for eternity

in the aviary of the skies above me.

Let the morning light take me.