A Little Birdie Told Him Poem by Scott J. Shepard

He was a minimalist.
Like a sky without any stars,
a town busied by each our ghosts
or aims to breathe in a basin wide.

He'd often ask of his own,
why the water in his glass?

A perpetual indignation
of his life and what he made it.

He had often said to himself,
could one fully quench the desert?

Need bring its sand to an ocean,
send the fish up to shore
and fill the oasis?

He would wonder about his mortality,
or if his heart was half that of a man.

If his world was so small,
not even the spectres
would feast off of his land.

Small wonder, impossible took longer.
A little plainer, a little stranger.
Some precious little thing that held out hope.
Or played out part in form with great measure.

With every inch, a target of destination,
and every star he saw respired creation.