Dripping in metaphor, but a pretty good poem.


Uncut Timber

Gliding, setting cupped-wings to land
Tilt, slide in, among thick branches
Time for no time, direction undirected,
offering shade, protected space

A place to rest and ruffle feathers
Preen a bit, resume the song
that began elsewhere, notes sung
from a life in other forests

Restive, with an eye for predators
Interrupted flight, to wing-in here,
landing for a while, to contemplate
options of an unending migration

Perhaps to stay a while, more likely not
Catching breath and stretching wings,
testing seasons, judging angles of sun
Lost in gentle foliage, then gone

No place to build a nest,
no reason to establish this far north
Permanence needs warmer springs,
further south than these roots grow

Still, there’s something to be said
for the maturity of uncut timber
Years standing against storms,
a history of drought and flood

Spread branches that ask nothing
No need to stay, no rush to go
Shelter, from one season to the next
A silhouette, on migratory routes

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.