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About This Poem
Melancholy
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I stand beside these tangled roots
of this ever changing clock-wood tree.
Where streams of ink, like dander fluff,
cling to my pen in congealed thought.
I will tread cautiously 'cross this matted sheath,
with the unsure step of weary feet.
Confusion, an utterance of un-trained words,
delivered from the beaks of travelled birds.
‘We strive to live, though live to die!’,
the loud and boisterous blue jay's cry.
Kind hearted sparrow, bright chickadee,
Their soulful song, of clemency.
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