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Posts Tagged ‘Bird’

.

Let’s go

his body cries

as he clings to the edge

of everything he knows

pulling and stretching

the nuances of air

between each feather

posturing the sun

on his back.

.

Then it comes for him,

the breath of Gaia

rushing in

rushing out

teasing his wild

hungry wings

till he captures her

exhaling

and lets go.

.

©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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our.

It’s one more slippery

snow-white day

when every bird

has stolen away

.

except for one

in the old elm tree

who watches my window.

But does he see me,

.

or just the reflection

of love left behind?

I blow him a kiss

through the half-opened blind.

.

And as each new season

transfigures our view

perhaps he won’t mind

that I’m watching him too.

.

© 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Without Roots

(re-post from 2 years ago)

.

South winds

(c) B. Albright 2011

push the great fir

to mortal degree,

its many arms thrashing

in dark circles,

its body twisted in deep groan.

And I would be that bird

 perched white at the top –

 I’d play the storm

 swaying in brave arcs

 without roots.

.

(c) 1995, 2013  Betty Hayes Albright

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.    .    .    (old one from 1976)

.

I thought it safe inside my cage,

but could I learn to fly?

Such warmth between those steel walls,

but would my spirit die?

.

So when I found the gate was raised

a trifle bit too high

I closed my eyes and held my breath

and jumped into the sky.

.

In fear I fell, a feathered stone,

my throat choked out a cry,

Is this the end? Was I a fool

to kiss my cage goodbye?

.

All I did was flounder more

as night was drawing nigh.

It seemed the worst was happening

and none could tell me why.

.

Then something warm stirred at my sides,

my wings were going to try!

The dawn broke only just in time

to blow my feathers dry.

.

At last I could fly sure and straight

with clarity of eye.

Free and strong, I knew now

that my cage had been a lie.

.

©  1976, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Without Roots

(Re-posting from August – revised)

.

South winds

(c) B. Albright 2011

push the great fir

to mortal degree,

its many arms thrashing

in dark circles,

its body twisted in deep groan.

And I would be that bird

 perched white at the top;

 I’d play the storm

 swaying in brave arcs

 without roots.

.

(c) 1995, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

Read Full Post »

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