I found a porcelain bird
at the thrift shop—
white, chipped at the beak,
painted eyes gone soft with wear.
I bought it for a dollar
and placed it on my windowsill,
where it watches the world
and forgets how to fly.
When the sun dips low
and the light stretches thin,
I swear I see it stir,
quivering against the wind.
I sit on the floor,
knees pulled to my chest,
and pretend I have wings too.
I think of the places
I’ll never go—
open skies,
open hands.
Sometimes, I hum a song,
soft and low,
and the bird hums back,
its hollow chest
full of dust and dreams.
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Author:
hyerin (
Offline) - Published: May 23rd, 2025 06:59
- Comment from author about the poem: maybe I bought it because it reminded me of something....
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments2
The metaphor seems clear to me and how we are all that bird frozen on a window sill watching the world go by gathering dust. Were we not all bought from a thrift shop? A wonderful poem full of meaning.
That is a lovely write, how so many of us just around gathering dust as the world passes us by, enjoyed the read
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