The Meadowlark

and over again the meadowlark warbles to me in a flute like call, an about to that which pours extinguishment upon the gentle flicker of my exotic pride,

"i am here, neglecta, what wish would thou have me this time grant?"

the meadowlark peers down at me from its gracious perch upon the withered stump of the once life tree, a tree whose shadow has cast ills as long my memory has served,

"do you so despise me, tender heart, when all i have ever done is sing to thee honored and saintly woes?"

i pull closer about myself, shivering without the glint of the dapper light which streams, daunted by that holy wood, in wide arcs that shape its manifesto upon my pitiable patch

"i am not so tenderhearted as ye perceive, but for the sake of that which depends upon this wasted form, i bend to thy will."

Image: J & K Hollingsworth, Western Meadowlark, http://www.junglewalk.com/