Let’s say that
during the course
of your reading
this poem,
you might
figure out
more of
who you are.

(Your heart might
come clean
of the grit
and hardness
from the outside in,
so you could really know –

really know
which mountain
to climb next
and from there
which part of the world
to see,

and how
to see it….)

But then,
you might  logically entertain
the idea that you could
cease the reading of
poetry –

a proposal
you would have to
in order to sustain
your journey.

Don Cadwallader

Wrong Bird

It was the
wrong bird
circling at two
hundred feet—

it should have been
a red-tailed hawk
on the warm
talons tucked,
appearing relaxed
but stalking
with eyes ablaze,

not a sandhill crane,
longing in desperate circles,
searching for a shred of white linen,

its mate moving
across the open field
far below.

Don Cadwallader