She held her hand so still,
cupping the weightless gesture,
a thin layer of seed resting there,
the sun drifting across her knuckles.
The bird turned its head slowly,
its eye a polished bead of intent.
She didn’t move, froze in soft air,
statuesque against the garden hush.
I almost heard his small thoughts,
the arithmetic of seed and trust,
until he leapt into her open palm,
his feathers twitching like memory.
She smiled, not at him but herself,
as if she’d been deemed worthy,
her hand now a quiet altar, holding
a prayer she never thought was hers.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 14th, 2025 04:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Gray you have captured the poem as she the bird in this poem. It is a most beautiful piece that is lovely on its own with such great imagery and great word choice but becomes a splendid metaphor as well. This is a definite fave
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback brother
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