Fledgling

Fledgling


I am no longer young.
I am not altogether old just yet,
archaic, an anachronism
wandering my own box canyons, lost.
My words still make some sense,
at least to me;
they carry inside them unknown songbirds
screaming to get out, take flight
high above the sheer canyon walls
comforted by your wise counsel,
kept warm by the grace of your
cozy, careful nest.

I see myself a poet
with cascading insights and clever phrases
locked in a toy store of my own design, forever.
I take no risks, face no rejections.
I feel no crying need to publish,
chapbook or solitary tome,
it’s all for me, all for me.
Not even your eyes may behold
the wonders etched on parchment
and tell me of my brilliance.
My light shines well enough for me,
I wander my box canyons alone.