Poetry Bluebird

[Organized_Chaos11]

I see...
Up in the oak tree.
A little bluebird.
Singing to me.
I wonder.
Why doesn't she sing a different song?
Over and over again, the same words.
I wonder.
Why doesn't she perch on a different branch?
Over and over, flying to that branch.
I wonder.
If those words define her.
If that branch defines her.
If her mother built her nest here, and now she will.
I wonder.
If another little bluebird will perch up there.
Sing that song.
That defines their line of bluebirds.
I wonder.
If the little bluebird sang a different song.
If the little bluebird perched elsewhere.
Would her parent's disgrace her?
I wonder.
If the family branch fell down.
And the little bluebird went to another for her safety.
Would the parents understand?
NO.
They would not.
They would thrust their little bluebird off the branch and watch it fall.
But the little bluebird gets up,
and flies right back to the parents with a sly smile.
Now, there are two dead bluebirds at the bottom of the oak tree.
I can't imagine what happened...
But I'm proud of that little bluebird.
And I might just follow it's example.

 

[Organized_Chaos113]

Somehow, my previous account had complications, so I made a new one and it's working like it's supposed to. I'll keep writing poetry, just a different account.