Gentle drips of raindrops
call at my door
and the crow squawks
and the chicken cocks
as the flower creeps through the cracks
while wrangled voices sweep, sweep
the dustballs that are left behind
from chattered walls
of discourse and stalls
progress pushes courage through
yet right behind, a million hands appear
pulling on its back—push, pull, pull, push
where were you when the clock stroke true
behind the veil it's like distant lands
and I wonder from which crack
the knowing bird will sit today
to sing its sweet longing—
ode to it all.