The Bird

A poem dedicated to my friend, Paige, who passed away

As I sit and stare

Out my window do I see,

But a humble little bird staring back at me.

Adorned with golden feathers and a simple merry tune,

I listen to her words, for what else have I to do,

But tarry here and work and wither from the stress,

How soon her bittersweet notes do put my mind to rest

To have a companion that knows nothing less

Then the joy of a day well spent.

How did she find me?

Now that I’ll never know,

But my shoulders slump and wonder

Where she’s been I can’t suppose.

What fine things she must have seen,

Soaring high above the trees

Her chirping tells a story;

She relays her adventures to me.

I am fascinated by her world,

A world free from pain

Her courage transcends,

A kind I’ve yet to see.

Though as she sits and pecks and chirps upon my sill,

I can’t help but notice she looks rather ill.

The courage has not withered and her golden hue remains,

But her beautiful feathers appear tainted by the rain.

Her soft, round eyes have a depth I cannot tell;

I listen and my heart begins to swell.

She’s a fighter, no doubt,

Her life has been rough,

Though every sorrow has made her tough

As I watch each feather fall,

Only bits of fluff remain,

Leaving pale patches that fester, like a stain.

My heart and hand go out to her,

For a fear she may fall

If I don’t attempt to catch her,

She may be lost to all.

Weak and fragile she may be,

But her chirp speaks victory.

And so she sits, quiet in my palm,

A small creature ever so strong,

Waiting for the breeze to take her far away.

Her body may leave me,

But her tune will forever stay.