"Young Ground Dove" - ©A. Derek Catalano
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A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush
I.
Within the palm, a pulse is felt, a warmth of life and gold,
A tiny thing of feather-weight, but certain in the hold.
It does not sing the grandest song, nor boast a plumage rare,
But it is here, beneath the thumb, while others dwell in air.
The morning mist is thick and grey upon the tangled thorn,
Where silhouettes of phantom wings are on the breezes borne.
Two shadows flit behind the leaf, two melodies entwine,
They promise more than what is held, they shimmer and they shine.
II.
The mind is such a restless thing, a merchant of the "more,"
That paces through the present room to peer outside the door.
It weighs the heavy, humble grain against the sacks of spice,
And whispers that the certain thing is never worth the price.
"Why keep the spark?" the ego asks, "When wildfires might ignite?
Why settle for the candle-wick when stars are in your sight?
Release the grip, relax the hand, the bush is close at hand,
Where better prizes wait for those with courage to demand."
III.
So many eyes have turned away from bread upon the plate,
To hunger for a banquet-hall behind a locked-up gate.
The traveler leaves the steady path for marsh-light in the fen,
And trades the coin he earned today for dreams of making ten.
We see it in the lover’s gaze, who seeks a perfect ghost,
And leaves the one who stayed through storms, the heart that loved them most.
We see it in the seeker’s toil, who digs a hundred wells,
But never tastes the water clear where deeper spirit dwells.
