10.04.2008

THE INSURMOUNTABLE


Sometimes I get the feeling

I will never write again,

as if one day my hands will fall off the ends

of my arms.

My aching fingers will cease to grip my pens.

Alas, what will I do?

When my joints are swollen shut,

and my hands cry out in pain.

When the knuckle popping doesn’t help,

and they lose the will to open.

What will I do then?

When I was young I had a bird,

a little gray lovely on

who could chirp & sing but

couldn’t fly.

Poor little one, with wings kept tidy.

Until the day the door opened wide, he

flew and flapped and gathered speed,

until he reached the air,

and up and up and up

he went, until

he remembered how.

1 comment:

Erica said...

Lovely poem, Charlotte. Thank you.