We all tell stories of bluebirds
stuck in our hearts
as though nests are forever
as though we own our hearts
but the rest of us live in the water
and the bluebird can only fly for so long
before there is no more land
for landing.
(This was written after listening to Bukowski's "Bluebird" as a "poetry challenge" from another blogger, Scot Young, from Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers)
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