broken wings

the mud-fingers shape the flight-bird --

clod-heavy, they mould

the dance of the gossamer wings


the revolutions whirl recklessly

in the churn of wheels –

a lost bird breaks and bleeds


tender years metamorphose to

hardened scab --

it’s time for the reckoning


time is coalescing, beckoning,

calling for the exacting of the refunding

of the despoiling of

a yearning cry


the potter’s hands, impotent artificers,

his spinning wheel by his side, motionless,

cannot repair broken strings