Thursday, November 13, 2014

Free bird

Thursday, November 13, 2014

I hold it up in both my hands
This trembling, feathered creature
I can identify only as a bird
Because it has wings,
Broken wings on which it
Cannot fly away,
But will the moment I mend them,
The way it must
Its soft touch lingering
On the tips of my fingers
And on my lips as I wish it well,
Aching to touch it again,
And again feels its softness
Against my calloused palms,
Feeling its warmth against
My warmth,
It breathing my breath
This precious moment
Caught in an instant
And release, this heart break,
This lasting gift that
Must be given away,
Real and unreal,
Previous, but not possessed,
A dream dreamed
But not forgotten,
A memory so vivid
It always seems real,
My wings broken like its are,
My heart throbbing
With the same need,
My gaze fixed upon it
As it sails into the sky,
A bird with wings
Then just a dot
Against the brightness

And then gone.

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