The Dead Bird

I tried willing life into you,

But you were nearly gone.

I cupped you in my hand

To witness your last song.

What brush of fate ended your life so soon

‘Neath the wrathful bristles of my broom?

Were you aiming for the garden well?

Or had you tried to fly, then fell?

“Will it move again?” I wondered.

But, alas, you were stilled

By my attack.

‘Cept for your eye

Rolling, slick and black,

To your mother’s cry

Above my windowsill.

Consumed by guilt, I wept, I cried and

Foolishly philosophized.

But I’m no sage, no mage, no wizard’s wife

Armed with spells to give you life.

So I laid you on a bed of leaves

And watched you slowly fold, then freeze.

Advertisement