An ekphrastic poem based on this.
Cut seven inch by seven inch—
On which a bird stands without legs.
Why don’t you have legs little bird?
Why, someone has given you shoes,
Red, with heels, and they are there too,
But still you stand without your legs.
You have drawn wings, but cannot fly.
Your tree branch is not made of wood,
But oil and tar on panel—are you
The fifth of your kind? You don’t
Have legs, but still you stand.
I can see it in your eyes, bird—
That desire to fly, you see
It’s also mine: if you can stand
Without legs can I then fly,
Even though I don’t have wings
To beat? Do I need red heels, as well?
I think you’re trapped, little bird,
On that hunk of lifeless wood,
Like I am painted—skin and
Blood on bone, going nowhere.
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