Rock-a-bye Baby
It waits near the treetops
For charm or challenge
Or promise of rain
The baby’s name is Cassandra
There’s a birthmark on her chest
It stirs a young storm
A fine gale is driving nails
Through nest and branch
Cradle, cradle and all
The birds must leave the baby there
The day she flies away
Down will come the poetry
The rocks will break and fall
And the truth she tells to honesty
The world regrets repeatedly.
© 2016 Rob Schackne
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