Birdsong

The winds of change sweep through the land making its stand upon every man. Women are there sweeping the floor, no more caring for the child they bore. They live life working where the man once held the head of household, now the woman rule’s as man grows old. Cold is the wind that breezes through, the change it quivers the land to stew.

Does anyone care that life will be lost, no frost for the pumpkin is what it will cost. The dehydrated land will no longer stand as the pivotal elemental force that which we command. In our hand is clay to mold, to hold, be bold, gallantly told. As ages sway from right and wrong what is lost is song, while all along the darkness pilfers our very being as what I’m seeing becomes manifest.

I decide what to say, in my own way nothing relevant to hold any sway. I play with words like the flight of birds, hold them in my hand as on crooked legs they stand. But I will give them the strength to soar, above this fruitless lure. I’ll hear the song, lift my ear to the throng of melody to carry me through my day and maybe, I will finally get a chance to fly into the sky where I belong.