i found it in the weeds
i found it in the weeds

i found it in the weeds
just down the street
the other side of the ditch
quietly waiting
for its last breath
in silent deliberation as

she tossed it out the window as
she continued her passage as 
unrecognized longings whisper within her

i picked it up and shook it
brushing at the dead debris
examining the bruises
deep and dark and invisible

for a while i carry it in my pocket
checking on it at the coffee shop or
the mall food court or
the movie theater on a date
where it would rustle and disrupt and
bleed a little

so i take it home
to an old birdcage discarded to the attic
wires dented and bent as they sustain
a door
hanging on with broken hinges
that never quite close or open

cloaked in an old piece of bedsheet
stained and a little oily
to keep in the dark
of my bedroom corner
it is barely breathing in
the fog of that lost cause

refusing to maybe heal
to sing of love again
to maybe abandon the comfort of shadows

where it caresses
only the memory
the prickles of the weeds
i found it in the weeds

i found it in the weeds

A new poem accompanied with photographs for symbolic illustration.

Creative Fields