Iron Poet, Round IX.
Welcome to the latest round of Iron Poet, the game where you give me three words and I give you a poem. This is an adaptation of a standard writer's workshop activity, and I do not claim the original concept. I just claim to enjoy doing it
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struggle
wakefulness
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Blinking sleep out of your eyes,
And ask -- forever hopeful, forever wild --
"Did my fairy come last night?
Did you see her? Did she come?"
I shake my head, say, "Not yet,"
And you subside, silent and sullen.
Another day bound to the world.
Another day of childish denial.
When they found you by the swingset,
Leg broken, crumpled, crying in the dark,
You screamed for them to leave you;
Said that help would come, if they would go.
Instead, they brought you here, little foundling,
To grow safe and strong within our walls.
They tell us not to touch the baby birds
That tumble from their nests in spring;
I wonder if we've sinned more dear than that.
Tonight, when the others have gone home,
When you, dear one, are nestled, angry,
In the shelter of your borrowed bed,
I will open all the windows, go to my room,
And close and lock the door.
Whatever passes here will be outside my sight,
And I will hope, and pray, that you
Are gone when morning comes.
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Awesome. As always, but still...awesome.
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