creative writing, Gratitude, Meditation, mental health, Poetry, Self-care, Truth and Perspective

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


under a big old oak tree.


I could watch the blackbird,

(or is it a thrush?)

as she


fluffed feathers dripping,


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


pure and sated, by nature’s


rhythm and rhyme. 

2 thoughts on “The Bird gets the Worm”

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