Roughspun Heron

Though stirred by the slightest wind
in want of flight, without the wont,
I tumble, end over end,
the word of Fate a wayward taunt.

My wings are frayed and thin
and depend on the whims of air;
I cannot fly like my kin
whose wings of flesh and feather dare

the stirless sky, or the storm,
but must keep to currents of chance,
yet…such is also the norm
for all things born of circumstance,

for all things in manner made
to be as Nature chose for them
must likewise be as so bade
by fold and form, by stitch and hem

and come undone at the seams
by wear and tear, by mold and moth,
by Fate which compels such dreams
to animate both flesh and cloth.

Grace

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The heron perched upon the tree,
alighting as though magically
like a danseur whose faultless grace
assured he need not hide his face
for shame of fumbling stately stance,
his beak aloft, a noble lance,
and wings folded round as a cloak
as he watched from atop the oak
the fish down below, in the lake,
deciding which crappie to stake.
I wish I could stick such landings,
looming above the world and things:
so perilous high, yet so calm,
holding life tight, talon and palm,
or soaring over earth with ease,
never bucked by an errant breeze.