Of My 33rd Birthday
Those that speak of the grey morning
Dream would say it's not the woman
Singing but the song wafted
Into the air like a thin slice
Of butter on the breakfast roll
Those that speak of waking dreamless
Hear the crow go back to sleep
And dream throwing a stone at the crow
Or dream ducks with silent squawks
Or thrushes with suspended whistles
The crow crows at the break of light
Who would say it has inclinations
Scares easily of squawking ducks
Head-on thrush collisions, .
It's none of these but myself
Turning thirty-three on a grey morning
Structure
16 lines · 4 stanzas