a frosty monday
morning brings misery: one
unhappy little
bird, a sad, hapless
creature that nonetheless learned
a universal
song: a single note
repeated -- shrill, insistent --
and brilliantly aimed
at my boss, whose aim
is to keep peace rather than
to find truth, this time.
i knew this time would
come, when finally a good
man would wear out, give
in, and give me no
option but to do the same.
like water on stone,
this erosion of
will is most unwelcome yet
inevitable,
intractable, in
every way a force that can
no longer be stopped.
one little bird, no
more interested in flight
than the ostrich -- but
bigger than all of
our efforts, fledgling and else,
to keep a true course.
the truth: a coarse chirp
again and again, then no
song but surrender.
Bless you for providing actual content for the page. Although I'm a bit of a wet blanket most times, I really enjoy your poetry.
ReplyDeleteI'm with Futzmonster.
ReplyDeleteThose closing lines are really beautiful. You have a gift for this Greta, and I'm so glad this blog gives you an outlet for it!!
ReplyDeleteXOXO
Darla
Your demented Chair
ReplyDeleteShould grow himself a backbone.
Kick him in the rump.
Lovely, Greta, but oh, dear, how sad. Maybe your boss is temporarily flooded rather than permanently eroded? One can hope.
ReplyDelete