Don’t count your chickens… the saying goes
But I’m not counting, I’m imagining
flocks of bids soaring, wheeling, roosting
in the tops of the tallest pine trees.
Who said anything about chickens, anyway?
I’m dreaming murders of crows, murmurations
of starlings, twitterings of sparrows,
cooings of mourning doves, screechings of jays.
I’m so enthused my metaphor is flying away
from me, beyond my grasp into the bluest sky.
Don’t put all your eggs back into their nest
Even though you know you should be cautious
As you thread the eye of hope’s needle.
Still the siren voices of the birds among
the high clouds call your soul to dreaming,
winging flight, whir and spin right off the edge
of the cliff, falling into the deepest
blue of anticipation. Hope is the thing
with feathers that casts caution
into the dustbin of history
and indulges every lick of sunlight
while it lasts because you never know when
the dark rain clouds will descend once more.
Don’t cry over all the hours you spilled out
dreaming of better days. What’s gone was well spent,
an investment of hope which your thirsty soul
needed to gulp. The milk of human kindness
you should not stint to pour out for yourself
as well as for others. Are you not human?
Do you also not need the bread of dreams?
Why should you be kinder to the stranger
than to yourself, poor lonely wanderer?
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