Our moulting days are in their twilight stage.
These lengthy dreaded suns of draggling plumes.
These days of moods that swiftly alternate between
the former preen and a downcast rage
or crest-fallen lag, are fading out. The initial bloom;
exotic, dazzling in its indigo, tangerine
splendor; this rare, conflicting coat had to be shed.
Our drooping feathers turn all shades. We spew
this unamicable aviary, gag upon the worm, and fling
our loosening quills. We make a riotous spread
upon the dust and mire that beds us.
The craving of Samuel Rouse for clearance to create was surely as hot as the iron that buffeted him.
learn moreThis is an African worm
but then a worm in any land
is still a worm.
It will not stride, run, stand up
before butterflies, who
have passed their worm-like state.
It must keep low, not lift its head.
I’ve had a dread experience, I know.
A worm can do no thing but crawl.
Crawl and wait…..
Reference:
Margaret Danner
