“Contemplation III”
Like a famished hawk I’ve flown too low, and
snagged my wing on a withering branch.
Swiftly my legacy fell like one of the
buds I’d broken with my beak, all those moments ago.
We that perish whisper
words that crumble beneath the poet’s hand
And the tree bides its branches, and a few sordid
feathers now
shrieking in the wind.