I see it on the ground
calling to me
beckoning unto me
to stop and peck
and peck again
each morsel I must consume
the crispy yellow harvest
thrown from Farmer John’s hand
I must peck and peck again
the cold, hard heavenly morsels
they call me, they beckon me
still am I pecking, pecking
at the now brown ground.
Penelope Shedrech
C. 2008
0329-070720080800
P.S. John was a hen, misnamed by a child. I wrote this from his perspective for a college course.
GardenPoetica 