I couldn't begin to repair
His broken wing.

Born of the bluest of blue skies
Soaked in kerosene, sitting on tinder

his intentions have fallen
to a blanket, fettered with

pine bark, rotting leaves,
rich soil and dark magic.

His tiny heart, as small as a poppy
seed beats faster than a  drum

His tiny form yearns to catch the breeze
to the nectar of the next Trumpet Creeper.