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:
Lovely poem, Charlotte. Thank you.
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