Often, I am a bluebird.
In the holes of trees I build my home
of twine small as bones.
Indeed, the air tumbles like memory
soft and worn, twisted like string;
and in my wings I capture the silence
In-between
all the trage dy
When I die my body will soon forget me
Just a passerby, blue feathers streaked
on a sidewalk.
The soul will slip out of my chest, yes,
and yet I'll still fly
anyway
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC
Often, I am a bluebird.
In the holes of trees I build my home
of twine small as bones.
Indeed, the air tumbles like memory
soft and worn, twisted like string;
and in my wings I capture the silence
In-between
all the trage dy
When I die my body will soon forget me
Just a passerby, blue feathers streaked
on a sidewalk.
The soul will slip out of my chest, yes,
and yet I'll still fly
anyway
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