The Old Cockerel
The trumpet fails to blast
not for lack of wind;
but a wear.
An old cockerel crows at dawn,
not to herald the day
but to hint the world:
I'm alive,
awake; to stir the snorer
from waste.
It's pretty
sleeping early. Dreaming
before a slumber; a shadow
while the sun blazes through.
Flowers wilt,
wither before their span
because the sap drains
on the cusp of prime.
The wattled old cockerel
sparkles from peep to dusk;
his crow rattles,
stirs the day.
© 2017 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
Copyright © Celestine Ikwuamaesi | Year Posted 2017
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