POETRY 2001

It's too much, too open,
too honest,
and far too wide
out here.

All the tender tiny feelings
want to hide
in fear.

If only they could learn their wings
they'd fly right back into the nest
crawl inside
and wait
for a more certain date.

Poor little things, they sing their song...
Could their mother be wrong?
She pushed them out, bid them fly.

What if no one hears the wish,
gathers them up to love and cherish?
Out in the open,
encircled in bright yellow pen
is a hard place for my heart and me
to be.

This one I wrote the next day, Nov. 7th, 2001. As you can see, my wild, bold mood of the previous night(Juice) had slipped away.