with a great heave into the underbrush, we tangle.
and with a grand scheme, into the overtones, we muster strength.
and though, with much enforcement of our ties, we are meant to be moving
no more wanting in the flesh is a phase worth moving on.
i, though a pardon on the prairie leagues, will wish and wander
and though i’ll pass by, only partially do i wind up and throw.
i am not a player nor a grand level.
i am a pawn to be wilting and coming back for a second year.
i am a wishing well.
i am a gardener.
i am a lever and fulcrum
and you are the birds.