XWatching birds fly and regretting that we have hands instead of wings . . . but then . . .


Instead of Wings

All of life’s a trade-off
and we’re given hands
instead of wings
So here I sit in mornings,
picking the coffee cup
up from the floor
next to my chair
and watching pigeons fly

Putting off for the time being
the flipping of switches
where these fingered words
light the screen
in lines across a page
Word by struggled word
They sometimes fly,
but most times flutter

They flap and glide, drop like stones
across my cluttered sky,
these feathered instruments
flocked in sentences
And should they see me here
as I gaze upon them there
A tilted wing is all I ask,
until the day I ask for more

Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection

THE SMELL OF TWEED
AND TOBACCO

available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.