The Art of Ourselves

I watched a bluebird on a window sill

She sat there placid, calm, and singing.

We shared the morning sun out in the chill,

We let its rays shine down on our faces; freezing.

 

She chirped out loud, beckoning to the sky

Smiling at the clouds above so white.

Her beak open searching for food still dry

After the unrelenting storm last night.

 

I thought to myself, how does she do it?

She’s so elegant: as patient as can be.

What if everyone could have this same grit?

The fast world would slow us down, even me.

 

Focusing our minds, emptying ours shelves.

We could all master the art of ourselves.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741