Shotgun

My plant weeps with me;
a drop splashes on my head.
I, like a bird shot from the sky,
lying here in the darkness.

I will never understand the strange,
unfortunate occurrences of everyday life
or why they make me shrivel up inside
like this broken-winged bird which cannot fly.

Crippled wings can mend and wounded birds can fly again,

I, waiting here in the darkness for the wind.

Written 3/19/92

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