Eastern is Ailing

Few sadder tales are told

Than the course of this dastardly cold

Muzzy and drooping, raspy and crouping

Fast in a virus’s hold


Sickly I sit in my chair

Eyeing the gloom out there

Chill winter day, not even a jay

To lighten the lachrymose air


A novel limply in hand

A famous brotherly band

With Russian names vexing and motives perplexing

I wish I cared more but I can’t


O dreadful deadening curse

Could ever this cold get worse?

It could and it will, but life grips me still

And lo, I behold a new verse!


A poem of a yard this place

Where feathers have brushed my face

And now in this hour of plague so dour

a phoebe flashes its grace!


Sweet bird of Nature’s art

Dark phoebe stirs my heart

His long tail dips, away he zips

Then back to his perch like a dart


Strong and sure he seems

This creature of bubbling streams

A positive yearning for phoebe returning

To dance her sprightly dreams


But meanwhile my aching frame

Again forgets its name

So back to bed my concrete head

Till it’s time to get back in the game

Author: Phoebe Dishman

Phoebe H. Dishman was born and raised in Beaumont, Texas. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother. An essayist and poet, she teaches adult Sunday school, compiles a monthly prayer calendar, edits the Big Thicket Association quarterly bulletin, and keeps a keen eye and ear open for birds.

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