Blackbirds: A Poem

All your birdseed is going to the blackbirds, he said,
They’re birds too, I replied.

The crowd of grackles
perched upon the wrought iron
weaved and hopped.

Fluffing up their feathers,
like black balloons,
until they deflate with
a metallic screech.
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The Chisel : A Poem

The chisel chips away,
knocking out a rough hewn shape,
flakes of stone, once my own,
cast to the ground.

I wanted so badly to belong,
stay stone clasped to the bedrock,
quartz among quartz,
marble among marble,

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