I make little inept noises.
Those that turn wrecks into bird metaphors.
It’s how I interrogate the universe,
turn weeping into a sweeping off on clawed
feet–jumping off from a cliff with
the heft of wings, dark hair trailing
as in some Chagall painting.
What are these bird sacs for, anyway?
To be Emily Dickinson’s shadow whispering
a song of august hope. For so brittle are we,
and submerged, that when we open our mouths,
it shall be as wind. Oh gold-fluted wings!
Eagle eyes trained on horizon
assailing with bold voice.
Prompt: Bird metaphor? Ha, could you use that in a poem? My poem veered towards Emily Dickinson’s famous poem, for the Writers Digest Day 21 Prompt is to communicate in some way with another poem. I want a bird song, okay?
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
by Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.