June 21, 2011
Black bird, small bird, far bird.
Searching for food and a family.
Hopeful, frightful, graceful.
Worried from a distance.

Purple flower, crushed beneath the shoes of force.
Drowning as the relentless rain smothers you against the curb.
The world spared you no sorrow, nothing to help.
Yet death cannot stop your seedlings from sprouting.

Rain, wet, sad, angry,
Helpful and unhelpful, you are.
Saddening the world, yet rejuvenating its whole.
Angering those in suits, sustaining those with roots.

Written to be sad, written to be special,
Winning and written, hanging in the hall.
Happy and great, nice and sad.
Good for those in mourning, listening for God’s call.

The black bird flies; the flower is dead;
The rain pours on down; the poem is read.
They can speak to the soul, they can light a fire.
They can change your life, you’ll want to inspire.

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