Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather

you’re not listening

sometimes you hear but

rarely understand as

you sit in the

wooden chair

whose roots are much

more grounded than my

loftily searching mind

you talk,

I listen, we all

hear, they chatter

and that’s how it goes

with these kind of days

maybe you’re a

mockingbird

            hearing everything

and repeating it as I

want it to be heard

like a familiar echo,

the kind that are

forever out of reach,

a mountaintop away

and every bit as empty

and me?

I’m the songbird

searching for a tune

when she’s lost her voice

or maybe I’m just hiding

in the valley where

there are no echoes

sometimes you watch

we all do

but even in a tree

hidden within a forest of

chirping you’d think

someone other than a

songbird could hear

through the stationary

branches barring

true melodies

and I’m sleepy

always sleepy in the

mornings

maybe I’m not a

songbird, but

 a mourning dove

waiting to be noticed

can you be a

mourning dove too?

come, lament the woes of

a songbird in disguise

and all the kind hearts

who are never far

enough away