A bird is a
Peculiar thing to me.
They hop, and flit, and twist about
and pick at every pebble
and crumb upon the ground.
But an even more
Peculiar thing
is in the way they move.
Effortlessly across the sky.
Calligraphy in motion.
They have the power to n'er come down
Yet they dwell upon the ground.

But an even more
Peculiar thing is love.
I do not know from whence she comes
or where'er she shall go.
A dainty hand leaves a lasting mark
bruise
imprint
a scar.
Never shall I understand
this
Peculiar thing of love.