08-02-2017, 07:11 AM
In the Cottonwoods
In Cottonwoods the bluebirds sing
like all the world’s beneath their wings
with throats that won’t be choked with fear,
che-cheek my dear, che-cheek my dear,
I know you must be listening.
A moment’s silence for the king
who chirps, this is the prudent thing—
a vaccine for the atmosphere
and the Cottonwoods.
Its necessary evil stings
our every grandson’s neck, and brings
a swelling to the inner ear
that damps the last che-cheek my dear,
and tags the lofty bluebirds’ wings
in the Cottonwoods.
In Cottonwoods the bluebirds sing
like all the world’s beneath their wings
with throats that won’t be choked with fear,
che-cheek my dear, che-cheek my dear,
I know you must be listening.
A moment’s silence for the king
who chirps, this is the prudent thing—
a vaccine for the atmosphere
and the Cottonwoods.
Its necessary evil stings
our every grandson’s neck, and brings
a swelling to the inner ear
that damps the last che-cheek my dear,
and tags the lofty bluebirds’ wings
in the Cottonwoods.