Poets are strange birds,
no wings but what they weave
for themselves out of scraps
of their own and others’ lives
or cobble together from twigs,
leaves and mud paste.
Some hobble. Others falter
in the face of an unrelenting wind.
A blessed few take off in flights
almost too beautiful
for words.
Published in Eye Contact, Spring 2017
Peace to your ♥!
Serendippity 
Love this and identify..
Thank you, Judy. :)
An apt description!
😊
This is a gorgeous metaphor, Stephanie <3
Thank you, David. :)