there is no joy in raising a baby bird—
wriggling, chewed up dreams, hopes, and desires
down its throat because you can still recall what "maybe someday" tasted like from back when you were
twenty and spry and alive
you say you push your children because you want them to be better than you
because "back in your day" you walked and trudged and struggled and yet—are they not?
you keep them in the nest and when they want to leave you say no because you're scared
and so were your parents
and so were their parents
but what are you scared of?
are you scared of the fact that the only time you can see if a bird can really fly is when you let it learn?
baby it and pretend it can. see how that goes when you realize
you might be the reason why in the near future,
under an endless, pink-blue sky
pregnant and teeming with love and life and beauty
all your little bird can do is settle, grow old, learn to love, and regurgitate its
pitiful little life