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: 28
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, NinjaGirl, Cheeky Missy
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Comments4
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
Beautiful
A sign or messenger from Heaven perhaps. Such a beautiful poem, and your description is unmatched!
Thanks for sharing your feedback I appreciate it
One of my six brothers told me such was possible, if only...but guess I just cannot be still, so perfectly still as they need. But they've played with me ever since. Very beautifully rendered with excellent imagery and a most delicious poignancy. Thank you so very much for sharing, Sir.
Thank you for sharing your feedback
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