I touched your small feathered wings
Soft like the down on a baby robin
My mother found long ago
Under a tree
In the snow.
My son watched
You moving
Ever so slightly
In the grass
and we saw you
Waiting to be mothered
Warmed under her wing.
For a moment I thought you had been
Had fallen
From the nest
Couldn’t fly.
I thought
Perhaps I could bring you home
Like my mother had
With her snow-bird.
I could watch you grow
Hear you sing

And one day you
Would perch on the limb
Of our garden tree
And learn to fly.
Today instead
was a different day.
If I could rewrite the ending
It would be a promise of hope
Of life
And finally



4 thoughts on “hope

  1. Pingback: hope | Le cose piu belle (the most beautiful things)

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