If there is to be any semblance of harmony in a family of nine siblings and two adults, a sense of humor is essential. It also helps to have a good imagination. Lucky for us we were all, including Mother and Dad, blessed with an ample helping of both. One might say I may have gotten an overdose, I always had a problem determining just where imagination ceased and reality began. "Woody" is the results of a dream I had. So real, I spent the better part of my eigth summer on the porch mentioned in the poem awaiting a return visit. This is my first poem.
When I saw a little rooster, with wings of black and grey.
He said his name was Woody, he could talk and he could sing.
He had a little red umbrella, tucked beneath his tiny wing!
He never told me where he lived, but he did say he could fly.
When I ask him where he was going, he said "I'm just passing by."
I said I'd ask my Granny, I knew she'd let him stay.
He could live in my room , and I'd feed him biscuit every day.
But Woody blinked his eyes at me, and shook his little head.
"I have a long, long way to go, before I lay me down" he said.
I told him I would miss him and wished that he could stay
He said that he would miss me too, and then he flew away.