Seeds in the cracks
and the finches make a point, their point
is to poke and pick with sudden thrusts.
The sun leapt over the eastern rim
and the chatter of birds is abbreviating
like the shadows along the row of blue spruce.
Light lifts its head and warms the dew.
Diamonds on the grass cut into me
and melt between my toes.
Like a bird, I bend close and hop
on the morning sea of green
and pick at the cracks.
I pray for seeds
and then for wings.
Gerald the Writer 
Real nice poem, Jerry.
Thank you. I pray all is well with you my friend.
praying for seeds and wings…that sounds like a good prayer to me…love the images
thanks for stopping C.
What else do we really need (metaphorically) besides seeds and wings?
ab-soul-lutely