I’m not the most appealing,
I know.
I don’t grow very tall,
Nor very fast.
I’m not the most beautiful,
Nor the most bountiful,
So I won’t be boastful.
I’m not that sweet,
Nor neat,
It’s all been said.
But I promise one thing:
If you let me plant my roots,
I just might grow on you.
I’m the fly in the hall,
By the wall,
Drifting-
Like a dandelion’s seed on a gentle breeze,
Flailing like a cat’s tail,
Wishing-
For solid ground where my feet lay,
Somewhere to stay, to pray
Before I’m taken by a wailing gale,
Like a failing sail sounding an ailing wail,
A fervent, furious, futile flap.
Spinning-
So it goes,
Going where the wind blows,
Not the direction I chose, I suppose;
I’m on my toes in my throes,
I don’t slow in the flow,
Where I’m going doesn’t matter,
Like the guys on the other side, and their chatter,
If I ride the storm, I’ll find a swarm,
Somewhere warm,
I’m sure.
I hear them outside, and this I know
The windows show a light-grey glow.
The yard was drizzle-dusted in a dancing, daylight daze,
Yet the sun’s rays poked through the rainy day’s haze.
The robins ranted and babbled by the crabapples,
While they foraged amongst the twigs and gravel.
I hear them now, while I stand in the sun room-
And I know that in time, all will come to bloom.
The wind whips and whisks the wisps,
Casting out cloudy skies
and spreading a crisp, brisk mist,
This too I know is true,
When I stand in the sunroom.
The File Pile 