Lying discarded and torn
upon an autumn path
a pair of paper wings I found
one a little damp
along the trailing edge
the other sun bleached and rippled
from some long ago summer day

So of course I strapped them on
looked around
and, well, flapped
hesitantly at first, but after feeling
that alarming little
     tug
of lift
I really went at it
beating the air about me
breathing hard
and then I was airborne
floating
lurching
tilting and leaning
climbing skyward

The little birds
and insects of the green and flying
sort
fell silent about me, watching
while upward I pulled
smiling

note to self never
argue with screaming budhha

A caterpillar inched up a smooth hairy stem
A spray of insecticide wasn’t meant for him
He writhed and he squealed as some caterpillars do
When given a poison that’s not meant for you.

My sweet canary just loves to sing,
with his yellow beak and golden wing.
His lovely songs will make you shake,
all other tunes will sound a fake.
But as I sit and think alone,
NoI feel my heart is made of stone.
My precious bird could be my sin,
I keep his soul well locked within.
For every soul is born so free,
I doubt your mind will disagree.