-SLIPPING AGAIN-
Freud says one cannot distinguish between leaving & being left
The poet from time to time mistakingly
writes living instead of leaving & deft for left.
She begins:
“ If all trees are oak trees
or some pine for love
when truth arrives on its way south to escape the cold”
She madly scribbles words about living
(She meant leaving) then
She mentions the cold
innate notions ingrained flight routes and when it comes to what is deft
(She meant left)
She cannot find the words
Feeling enough has been already said
She is ready to close her notebook
retract the lead in her pencil &
head out beneath periwinkle skies
At this point oblivious when birds fly overhead
or speak from branches (and once only)
or speak from branches (and once only)
They whisper the secret mission they are on and
How they know flight patterns & seasons
Far more random than the human mind can fathom
Restless with a promise to return
balanced on a wing
a new story inside hollow bones
and the softest of thick feathered
warmth covering a cage of ribs
which has never contained anything
but that which we can never touch
They would tell her this and more, for a few seeds only.
But she has closed her notebook and is late for something she has forgotten where.
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