Instinct Poem by Dianne Feaver
Instinct
On bitter winter nights, I hear her cry,
a stray abandoned sometime last spring.
Fearful still, she won't answer my call
but slinks away, as if beaten too.
How like a child she sounds, I think
her still alive part of some greater plan
that she be out there instead,
where even I could not survive
and I thank her, I am reminded
before I sleep, to go and see
my children in their beds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 1:19:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
