A poem is like a bird
as it takes off into flight,
when you think you have it down,
it reveals Aladdin’s touch.
A merlin’s turning head
transforms to peregrine,
and sometimes all you see
is a buteo sitting there.
A sparrow singing songs
is likely just to be
sitting on a tree limb
without familiar streaks.
Let us warble on
whether crown or
humble birth. We are
worthy creatures all
this ode belongs to us.
3/2018
Anne's mediocre poetry 