The Bird gets the Worm

I could be content, if,

I allowed myself to be.

I could not write lists

or set life goals,

if I was happy, just

Sitting

under a big old oak tree.

*

I could watch the blackbird,

(or is it a thrush?)

as she

Waits,

fluffed feathers dripping,

watching

for the worms to hear

that it’s raining,

to be speared

by her beak (clever thing).

*

I could be happy

if I gave myself time.

And forgot to do stuff, to do things,

and watch

life,

pure and sated, by nature’s

Timeless 

rhythm and rhyme.