I waken from isolation with the noise of birds. <br />Only they are not alive. They are dead and chattering away. <br />As if high pitched notes of a woman wounded by the wayside. <br />How words subdue all nature. Throw another wren into a ditch. <br />This is the image I see tonight on a beach full of stars. <br />When all others see joy in their mineral tonics <br />that promise miracles and cures of all ills. <br />Again, I hear the birds. I never drink.<br /><br />MARINA GIPPS<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/again-37/
