Friday, February 16, 2007
Flying So Carelessly (poem)
Flying so Carelessly
Do you know them?
those days
when you ask
what's it all for,
this struggle and strive,
this trying to make things
sharpen,
come clear
the way you feel they should.
The birds, swirling so carelessly
outside your city window,
they don’t care,
they just love
the crazy dip
and swoop
of their sunlit days
high above
the shimmering frenzy below.
The rosy fish,
dozing or circling in the pond
or creek,
they frivol
their days away
waiting for the next bite
to flow along,
they don’t waste a thought.
And that sheep
that swollen woolly balloon
that your friend
rescued
and took home to join
her band,
the one who had stood so long
sad and lonely at the gate
(the owner didn't know
that one sheep is not
a flock,
a sheep needs others
of its kind
to find out who it is)--
that sheep never worried about
its future state,
only its present need.
And then there are the butterflies
weaving their colored silks
as they do their wobbly dance,
or even the waves
bursting against
the cliffs
with their airy fire,
do they worry about
who is watching,
or remembering
the shapes they take?
But you--you wonder if your name
will be included
in the book they talk about,
the one that keeps tabs
on everything
you ever said or did,
all the small whirling emblems
of your life
gathered onto a final page--
acknowledgement at last!--
or if you will slip away,
unnoticed,
as if
you were never here.
Dorothy Walters
February 3, 2007
Do you know them?
those days
when you ask
what's it all for,
this struggle and strive,
this trying to make things
sharpen,
come clear
the way you feel they should.
The birds, swirling so carelessly
outside your city window,
they don’t care,
they just love
the crazy dip
and swoop
of their sunlit days
high above
the shimmering frenzy below.
The rosy fish,
dozing or circling in the pond
or creek,
they frivol
their days away
waiting for the next bite
to flow along,
they don’t waste a thought.
And that sheep
that swollen woolly balloon
that your friend
rescued
and took home to join
her band,
the one who had stood so long
sad and lonely at the gate
(the owner didn't know
that one sheep is not
a flock,
a sheep needs others
of its kind
to find out who it is)--
that sheep never worried about
its future state,
only its present need.
And then there are the butterflies
weaving their colored silks
as they do their wobbly dance,
or even the waves
bursting against
the cliffs
with their airy fire,
do they worry about
who is watching,
or remembering
the shapes they take?
But you--you wonder if your name
will be included
in the book they talk about,
the one that keeps tabs
on everything
you ever said or did,
all the small whirling emblems
of your life
gathered onto a final page--
acknowledgement at last!--
or if you will slip away,
unnoticed,
as if
you were never here.
Dorothy Walters
February 3, 2007
