meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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Old Hunters Of The Fall


in frosted stubble fields
the hunter
aimed to pierce the breast

then took his knife
cutting away
to reveal a heart
once filled with
song and symphony,
now lead

I was
the doomed dancing grouse
the last pigeon whose shadows
once darkened prairie skies
the un-partnered goose
who scanned low and high
for who the one she'd lost

and now the wings
old cry are lost
the once-shared dreams of flight
the old haunted songs of heights
thoughts only for you and your kind
are food
at a table where I'm not blessed
yet
still nourished the hunters

then I was that lost bird

now
could there be a tale of a bird
a Phoenix not so unreal nor so rare
could that be my story now
unfilled with myth nor lies

could one be miraculously
be reborn from the fire of cares
yet remain unhurt, unburned?

a new Hunter having found me
in this more recent time
one who does not aim at the heart
not with deceptions
nor rifles
at my sky

my wings are mended
my sight is yet, focused only still horizon-high
redemption is in the greening stubbed fields
and once again for me
there will yield
the truest promise of flight and I.



LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM/WORK
TIME DATE STAMPED DECEMBER 2, 2018/6:42 am PST
AND ALSO FOR THIS POET MELISSA A. HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE-
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD
WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE





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