“Don’t believe the chaffinch,” my mother told me,
hands slack in linen tangles.
“They know so little of our world,
so little of your world,
so little of any world men tread.
Imagine always looking up,
or always looking down,
never along stranger scopes.
Can you imagine a world without level understanding,
without seeing as another person does?
As another person can?
How can the chaffinch think?
They have no lessons, no masters, no books!
Their nature divides them from us,
but we divine their nature,
we divine our own!
And might we mistake in our proclaims
and could a chaffinch be other,
other than what we divine if there were books?”
Written for The Daily Prompt – Surreal