Photo Copyright of cr4.globalspec.com
I watched your small, fuzzy structure, scoot along the blacktop.
As you carried on to your elementary place.
We were surrounded by entitlement, and pre-pubertal, impulsive children.
There was a sort of pride in your crawl and,
Like me sensed our touch, our taste and the sound of us foolish kids.
Neither of us had molted yet.
Despite this, I admired your courage to walk amongst us, unafraid.
Part of me wished to pick you up and carry you to the mama oak nearby.
Yet, I was… afraid and still I let you walk.
Only to misplaced beneath a left foot.
And I, surrounded by the laughter of low mentalities.
You never got to spread your wings, and kiss the petals of flowers,
Or taste the nectar they gave.
And I have been left to molt alone.
To know what the spring Iowa breeze smells like, and feels like.
Unable to migrate, because of impotence.
When I should have carried you.