Issue 11
Sigh
Marie Eyre
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Where Something Softly Sighs
I wondered if the city
would ever clean it from the sidewalk.
At first, it glowed in death -- yellow
and gold feathers shimmering into each other,
eyes darkly open, tiny clawed feet entwined.
I passed it daily, for a week,
noting its slow deterioration, as it lay
beneath the ledge of a pizza joint.
Day after cool day, nothing bothered it --
not a foot, nor wind, nor bags of garbage
that came and went just inches
from its pitiful starkness.
I grew angry at the city
and at the cigarette butt
tossed next to its head; I derided
myself for always passing by,
staring down, doing nothing --
I shift its weightless body
into a plastic bag and carry it
to my garden. I gently tip
the contents under a cedar hedge,
feeling like I did as a child --
saddened and concerned,
deep where something softly sighs.
~Marie Eyre
Marie Eyre is a retired musician and published author; having been published on the Internet, in literary journals, and in newspaper venues. Marie has been a guest co-editor at The Green Tricycle and is the artist who creates the journal's artwork.
© 2003 by Marie Eyre. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.