Apr 28, 2021

We are the crows, a happy child.

We, the humans, move through the week like shapeshifters.

Monday is a dog with three legs, it barks at any noise,

And if it had a fourth leg and more motivation

It might just walk away and leave you.

Tuesday is your mother, as she was before your birth,

Lighter of heart, and far quicker to laugh,

Not as she became, a bag of bones, worn down by life.

Wednesday is the oak tree that survived the long drought,

Seven years with little water and almost no hope at all.

How did it survive? Deep, deep roots.

Thursday is a murder of crows, they sound like old men

Who seem to always long for the past, and in doing so

Miss out on the beauty of each present moment.

Friday is a young child delighted by Christmas; the toys,

The laughter, the gaudy decorations. The child doesn't see

The desperation among the adults, buried by debt.

Saturday is an older child, a teenager, excitedly preparing

For the senior prom or the homecoming parade, alive

And living in the moment, as it can be for any of us.

And Sunday is the first rose of spring, sharing its beauty

With anyone who pauses for a moment to look.

Slow down, friend, count the petals, inhale the fragrance.

And we are the humans, moving through the week

Like shapeshifters, we are the dog, limping on its three legs,

We are the young teen, laughing through life

Even as the responsibilities of adulthood set in.

We are the crows, a happy child, a hopeful teen,

We are the first rose of a new spring, and our week is full.

We are life, we are promise, we are time itself,

We are human beings, moving steadily through a week.

Oh, life - thank you for the trials and the blessings.



Ren Powell

Bait the Lines

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HOOT, a monthly literary magazine on a postcard

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VIA NEGATIVA, purveyors of fine poetry since 2003


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