This little one, so light
her weight barely affects
her perch, this branch.
The morning is
her song, shared--
her body, her position,
an instrument.
She meets with
her chorus each day
in these branches.
A bird's bones
are hollow to make
her flight effortless,
but what if her sound
also travels with ease,
with triumph, each morning--
her mouth a reed,
her body a flute?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment