He's waiting for me.
Laying in bed reading,
content to be alone,
but he wants me next to him.
I want to be next to him.
I am waiting too.
I am waiting to complete this piece
and I have barely started.
Line 3 and why is it so hard?
It's not really,
it's just me focusing
on the blank space to be filled with my creation.
I am waiting
for the lightning bolt to go though the top of my head
and produce brilliance on the screen.
Waiting to see what comes out of me.
Waiting to check mark my growing list of to dos.
I have that big knot in my throat
as if I am holding back crying.
Am I waiting to cry?
Cry about not recognizing all life's amazing miracles
because I am looking the other way?
I am standing by the mailbox
and look down and see a dead bird,
her neck twisted to the point
that her head is a complete silhouette,
I gasp at the shock of it.
It must have been so quick,
at least I hope.
Couldn't have known what hit her
but it had to have been a car.
She looks so perfect,
the long green shards of grass
framing her body and wings.
It's like she's waiting
for me to discover her.
But she wasn't waiting to be killed.
She was living it,
doing her thing,
flying from this place to that or whatever birdies do...
gone like that.
We clipped her wings
and threw her body over the gulch.
they are my reminder for flight,
for continual movement.
She's given them to me
and I am not going