George Eliot struggled to understand and to be understood. It took many years for her to be heard, read, and accepted. The established order allowed little space for her until the public read her work and learned to love her. We cannot know her fully unless we find her in this skin scratching the surface of the status quo to find something more meaningful deep within. For many years she was the dove with the broken wing who watched as the sparrows took over the feeder. Enjoy this poem I have dedicated to George Eliot:
Broken Wing
for George Eliot
Dove with broken wing-
winter's response
to the spring in her heart.
She chooses a dream
of feathers and down
on an evening that's snow-sure.
The setting sun introduces the moon
at the opposite horizon-
seesaw game of all's well.
Balanced over the crystal ball of earth,
predicting future, the moon's aura
holds her captive
in a cave of evergreen.
Peaceful is her slumber.
She won't know
the frost of morning,
hear the chitter of sparrows
establishing pecking order
at the Griff House feeder,
or see the old man coming to feed them-
his nose as red as the bucket that holds
the seed. Millet, sunflower, thistle
dwindling down reluctantly.
Freda M. Chaney
from Oh god, Papa
Broken Wing
for George Eliot
Dove with broken wing-
winter's response
to the spring in her heart.
She chooses a dream
of feathers and down
on an evening that's snow-sure.
The setting sun introduces the moon
at the opposite horizon-
seesaw game of all's well.
Balanced over the crystal ball of earth,
predicting future, the moon's aura
holds her captive
in a cave of evergreen.
Peaceful is her slumber.
She won't know
the frost of morning,
hear the chitter of sparrows
establishing pecking order
at the Griff House feeder,
or see the old man coming to feed them-
his nose as red as the bucket that holds
the seed. Millet, sunflower, thistle
dwindling down reluctantly.
Freda M. Chaney
from Oh god, Papa
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