As she molded back into the tub of wax – the medley that she came from,
she often thought it to be hard to maintain the shape she desired:
A little bird of yellow feathers with polka-dots of red,
who sang a dark, blue song the whole night long and this is what it said:
Although I’d rather be a yellow bird than anything that’s grander,
I often find it all too hard to eat when life is bitter.
It’s easier this way you see – to blend with all the others.
As broken wings and solemn things die slowly in the winter.
© 2001 RB