You viewed your dowdy, downy feathers
as an aging woman views her fraying face.
You looked upon the peacock and his pageantry with envy,
a countenance unbecoming of such a small bird.
An owl in an olive tree laughed at your worries, said
“Child, if only you could see what I see.”
You grimaced and astutely chirped in reply,
“But owl, you’re blind! You don’t make no sense to me.”
So you sat and scowled in the shade of the olive tree,
and pickled your poor heart in a salty sea of envy.
One day you awoke; your down lay at your feet.
A snowy swan is what you now seemed to be.
“No!”, you crowed, “This is all wrong.
Just look at my winding neck and white wings!
This is not what I wanted at all.
This is not it; I didn’t want this at all.”
The owl in the tree laughed at your insecurity, said
“Child, if only you could see what I see.”
But the owl, he was blind and he made no sense to me.