The Soup
The Soup
Herald the song of the poet and poetess…
The muse, the art of words, chased across paper by pen.
Not unlike a pirate and a princess, a hero and a queen.
My time here among those that fly, has been short.
But and yet, (pause)…I am grateful to be here at all.
The wings of some, full feathered, birds leave me knowing I will fall.
I am unskilled and often feel light headed.
Yet the chirping sounds, the longing calls, the very cooing utterances,
of veterans and beginners all and as one…
lift my unsteady, unready wings ever higher,
than I thought possible, to still breathe…at all!
Giants walk hard and angels pass lightly,
both leave prints on our lives ever lasting.
Comments on words, words on paper,
dreams and fragments of tensile.
Thank you to the soup.
Ann
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