Poem-A-Day: Day 113

Sparrow Doesn’t Get It

Sparrow calls the silver-backed wings
something unheard of in this day and ageless gimmick.

Silver-backed wings respond contrite
that they have a name somewhere near simplicity.

Sparrow never knowing, never heard
of simplicity, not once in trying things like flight
and being verbose, talking overhead, over heads,
spasmodically sundering thunder clouds to chirp
away at the voices in its very narrow minded
absence of thought; the train that stopped short
of greatness.

Silver-backed wings fly simple, over
heard, if something happens to catch another’s
fancy, but nothing’s fancy, because the flight
is soft and slow, mellow, dramatic, but eloquent
to notwithstanding underneath the eyes gazing
in chapped glory towards the sun and clouded
blue heavens.

Sparrow calls the silver-backed wings
contemptuous names, faltering over each word blankly.

Silver-backed wings respond contrite
that they have been called worse things than simplicity.