Day 13, Ode to Edward the Dead Bird

Day 13, Ode to Edward the Dead Bird

                                                                             for Carol

O we were young,

and you so dead,

our hopes far-flung,

we named you Ed.

Hardly thought we then,

scarce think we now;

but you, Ed, were most profound.

Insight’s trickier than ever it’s been,

time leans hard at the prow.

Ed, in you alone we trust, our buffer against running aground

If it’s true, as they say, that sand runs most quick

the less remains in the glass,

then tip it back, my friends, it won’t make you sick.

And, Edward — please kiss my ass

You smug mug of a dead bird, Ed,

surely you’ll fulfill that task

with your mocking, silent songbird way,

your distinctively red-crested head,

stone-eyed unblinking mask

rips into my soul as I lay

dreaming of those early years:

you, unresponsive to the touch,

Carol and I confronting our fears

of mortality and such,

a feat only the young and brash attain,

too foolish to heed its call,

yet drawn irresistibly to its song.

Death we thought was your domain,

ours we thought to forestall.

But Ed, you held our fate in your stiff, orange craw all along.