|
I watched a child play with
a feather.
She allowed it to be lifted by an updraft
It was carried easily up, as in fair weather.
The girl smiled as she played at her craft.
How many times I have wished I could focus
As well as this child, so perfectly did.
The world would be left with nothing bogus,
Crime, misery, poverty, death, fear, illness, of all rid.
For I surely could concentrate on a freedom,
Willing with pleasured pointed mind to come.
Earth in her wondering for an end to a shivering,
Rising feather morning, easily, softly, quivering. |
