When a child’s born ,she usually cries
As the stimulation of birth has its price.
Yet we must leave mother’s womb
Then create a cocoon
Where our psyche a world may devize.
Metaphors spring up like spring flowers.
Similes enchant by the hour.
How rich our own minds may be
When we perceive all we see.
For relaxed eyes don’t enjoy being narrowed.
Focus is sharp when we hunt.
Yet maintained it can too often stunt.
We need a broad view,
As the owls always knew.
If only we saw back and front!
The owl can see with wide and narrow view
Focuses that poets and artists
The broad sweep on the canvas makes a
Where details and designs can have their space.
What God endowed the owl with such excess;
And all her progeny to enjoy bliss?
Is evolution but a narrow miss?
What exquisite accident made this?
Eagles,hawks and owls must kill to eat.
No blandishments nor kindness make them sweet.
What God could make an Eden this deceit;
Where lambs are snatched up while their mothers bleat
So God himself destroys to fill his leisure;
Such fearsome revelations show his measure.
Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious April walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds irregular babel
And the leaves’ litter.
By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover’s gestures unbalance the air,
Her gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower.
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.
How she longed for winter then! —
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock, each sentiment in border,
And heart’s frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
But here — a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into vulgar motley —
A treason not to be borne. Let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.
And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, eithe
The two painfully-simple habits of highly-successful writers
Writers also love wandering. “My springboard has always been long walks,” said Thornton Wilder, playwright and author of Our Town. William Wordsworth mythologized walks through the English countryside,