Wildbirds

This afternoon, the verses read,
every poet questioning the glare
of sunlight, the black-footed
night, the wild-purple iris
(why are they considered wild
with such a gentle disposition?)

Today I vow to leave my worries
to the air, the fragile frightened
moths who search for freedom,
the struggling worm who works
to move the heavy rocks that keep
him buried. And if I have a soul

today, I'll let it rest, a blooming
twig, a lazy blade of grass, a wilderness
of flowers staring skyward; think of
all the wildbirds in their nests
unencumbered by their knowledge.