Edit 4: The Stork's Whereabouts
Did the bird you tell us of—
the stork—survive the sea-spit
bellows of an ocean tossing
in the torment of the sky's
lightning lashes?
Did our once-swaddled stardust
dissolve in salty splashes, leaving
glimmers I might've mistaken
for the moon's?
What if we boil seawater?
My teacher taught us
we get salt that way.
Is it the same with stardust?
If it's not, then may we please
at least go to the rocks where
we could find him sprawled,
contorted, gasping in his
soggy clumps of crimson tufts,
and bring that poor bird home
to patch him up?
If not, it's fine.
Just stay in bed
and we will bring you
chocolate, hugs, and tissues.
Edit 3: The Stork's Whereabouts
Though that stork is down and broken
with its silken blanket carried far
along the ocean's breath, and stardust
has blended and dissolved with salt,
won't there always be a bird
to give us that joy already given?
And if that swaddle has been blown too far,
and our stardust can't be boiled out of water,
may we at least go where that poor bird
pants and labors on the stone
in his soggy clumps of crimson tufts,
and bring him home for us to patch him up?
If not, it's fine.
Just stay in bed--
we will bring you
chocolate, hugs, and tissues.
Edit 2: The Stork's Whereabouts
Though that stork is down and broken
with its silken swaddle
of stardust in the ocean's breath,
won't there always be a bird
to give us that joy already given?
And if that cloth has seen ocean spilling
from the cliff,
in stormy rips of currents
that our precious stardust rode,
may we please at least go to the shore
where that poor bird labors on the stone
in his soggy clumps of crimson tufts,
and bring him home for us to patch him up?
If not, I understand.
Just stay in bed-
we will bring you
chocolate, hugs, and tissues.
Edit 1: The Stork's Whereabouts
Though that stork is down and broken
with its silken swaddle
of stardust in the ocean's breath
as a sodden glimmer
and a released farewell-handkerchief,
won't there always be a bird
to give us that joy already given?
And if that cloth has seen the ocean spilling
from the cliff,
in stormy rips of currents
that our precious stardust rode,
may we please at least go to the shore
where that poor bird labors on the stone
in his soggy clumps of crimson tufts,
and bring him home for us to patch him up?
If not, I understand.
Just stay in bed-
we will bring you
chocolate, hugs, and tissues.
Original: For the Sixth
Though that stork is down and broken
with its silken swaddle
of stardust in the ocean's breath
as a drowning twinkle
and a released farewell-handkerchief,
won't there always be a bird
to give us that joy already given?
And if that cloth has seen the ocean spilling
from the cliff,
in stormy rips of currents
that our precious stardust rode,
may you please at least go to the shore
where that poor bird labors on the stone
in his soggy crimson tufts, and bring him here
for us to patch him up?
If not, I understand.
Just stay in bed-
the four of us will bring you
chocolate, hugs, and tissues.
