chickadee symphony

(your favorite poet is a bit low on the lively scale, and offers the following, written last month, as something for you to enjoy while he tries valiantly to find a reason to go on; well, okay, maybe I am not your favorite poet, but still, humor me, please)


outside my window today,
the chickadee symphony
plays away the day,
as my November soul
feels so old and grey:
wishing that it were
another day in May;
anything to remove this ring
from around my neck;
cast off the weight of repose,
and throw myself
at the feet of all those
who wish me well:
aw, what the hell,
I have done it,
just as I chose.



November 22, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.