poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Saturday, May 13, 2017

Wild Morning Glory

You can’t see the moon, but it’s there.
Listen, the birds are singing to it now.
They will make music all night

but you must not love them.
When the first sprout pokes up
the birds will be the first to bite

and there is no way to fight them,
but make roots deep and deeper.
Go down twice as far as up, anchor

and maybe there will be enough to begin again,
though every day you bloom, they will break you.
You were born to be food for the crows.