A wonderful bird is the Pelican, Its beak can hold more than its belly ...
A wonderful bird is the Pelican, Its beak can hold more than its belly ...
A wonderful bird is the Pelican, Its beak can hold more than its belly ...
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16<br />
Alive<br />
by Lucy Sheehan<br />
As <strong>the</strong> sun rests atop <strong>the</strong> trees,<br />
resting, yawning <strong>its</strong> final breath, before <strong>the</strong> moon<br />
takes <strong>its</strong> giddy watch over <strong>the</strong> milky fields,<br />
one takes time to walk amidst <strong>the</strong> dying light,<br />
amidst all that was once dead – alive.<br />
And atop <strong>the</strong> tallest trees, and amid <strong>the</strong> bowing reeds<br />
<strong>the</strong> furtive moorhen glances – busy among <strong>the</strong> boughs<br />
to pluck plumes and clinging threads<br />
to grace her little house, where she as safe as any<br />
might subs<strong>is</strong>t and rest, like me – alive.<br />
And <strong>the</strong> swaying air <strong>is</strong> full of moths,<br />
to flit and die away across <strong>the</strong> yellowing pasture,<br />
and <strong>the</strong> deer in an ephemeral glance – dances,<br />
to and fro atop <strong>the</strong> grasses, amidst <strong>the</strong> swaying heads of seeded pips<br />
that reeling burst and sing along <strong>the</strong> breeze – alive.<br />
And pausing at <strong>the</strong> gate – before <strong>the</strong> humming field,<br />
merrily life comes forth to greet me, takes my hand, and beckons<br />
freely, congratulates and I, though weakly,<br />
stumble forward – I’m human, and meekly<br />
<strong>than</strong>k God<br />
I’m alive.