Soaring Out of the Pen

Sitting here by the lake, The lake where it all started once, I sit and think of you. You, a poet of your own kind. Naïve bird why do you not take flight? Even though your wing is broken, crippled you still conquer all. Hmmm, funny... once just visited me... All you have seen, and those that have seen you know that you have seen all. Been all. Felt all. It is so cold, too cold. The wind is strong. So I cannot stay too long. I have a lesson to have and thoughts in my head. But you, bird, are different. Even though you do not want to be. Moon Flower. PART II Now it is warmer and I write inside. The lines are drawn and have been crossed and dotted. I sit, and think. For you said, "Write a poem for me; about what you think when you think of me." But you see, I see you differently than I see me. All that is true is that we cannot be, human. Melody and harmony combine in the most dazzling silence to make rhymes and rhythm that none can keep up with. None but the pen, and a fun-sized girl who has the prettiest smile. It has been awhile since you last sang, songbird. Yet it is because you don't like to. You prefer to watch and observe the poetry all around you. For the poetry read aloud means nothing at all for the deaf. And as I notice your mute voice. I smile and think about how beautiful a bird you are when you spread your wings. Songbird.