Thoughts Like a crumpled brown
A fist closed and held it there.
There is no pain, no grief.
Why would something so brittle care?
Can't there be a time for goslins grazin'
While their Mama and Papa stand by them?
Wild birds they were we're phrasin'
Only a flick of our interest and whim.
The grass is green where they pluck it,
So industriously they work for food,
Their head is down for a bit.
No matter Mama's head's up, cautious mood.
She's been tamed and raised in this park,
Still she isn't careless and trusting yet.
Though the hour is late, almost dark,
She'll see her babies graze and get.
You are called a wild thing,
Sometimes, I wonder about this.
If you are wild why do you bring
Such lovely pictures of bliss.