~SARAH BROWNSBERGER~

A GOLDEN PLOVER

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This plover, which I love, thinks I might rob her,
that I, whose tonic note is motherhood,
might coldly seize her brood to feed my own.
And so I might, I might; I am not fool
enough to discount dire need. Yet to rail
blindly at proferred love seems less
than a sincere human creature might deserve,
despite all the evidence and my own
inner knowledge of ruthlessness and wrong;
for I yield to her cry, needless or no,
as I see her flutter and swelling throat,
and feel the pulse beneath the satin blue.



 

© by Sarah Brownsberger