Hedge sparrows drink the sun
as it wanes
and the draining year passes

they still glean a family happiness
in spite of the closing dark,
a spite richly deserved

listen to their lead and chatter,
ruffle and preen together, apart
as hearts and feathers wait

On days like these

Winter sunrise low on the trees

Bruised dawn of crimson pinks and yellows

silhouettes the waving branches

sharp relief against a cloth of birds

A bedraggled army of tattered hungry souls

clinging to straws in an empty field

feathers moving in the early light

as tinted day takes on the shift from frosted winter night

Fluttering hearts
beat like drums
against Painted Feathers

Their lives speed by,
fragile and fleeting
like the cherry blossoms
of spring.

Life’s most magnificent picture
painted with watercolor,
on thin paper.

Frantic,
yet peaceful.
Bold,
but elusive.

I wonder,
if they live life fast

or if we
are just slow.

At the beach house
you don’t need much
an old mossy table
the boards
collaged in pine needles
a firepit
domed by scorched
trees huddling
stitched together
as one quilted canopy
hoping for wisdom below
A snappy fire
fanning air
that
grows crisp
and birds
the birds
oh the birds
their songs above
always their songs
around.

I lay next to you in a field of lilacs and lavenders.
The beautiful floral scent fills my senses
I am surrounded by all that is purple.
I watch as the brilliant blue sky is filled with gorgeous violet hues.
I listen to the birds as they soothe my anxious mind.
I put my hand into yours.
Our hands intertwine.
My left hand held by your right.
The strands of purple in my hair cascade around my face,
I am surrounded by purple.
A crown of purple flowers rests on my forehead.
I am surrounded by all that is purple.

the bird pecks the acorn,
fighting through the casing's steel,
the bird breaks his beak and falls to the floor,
the rainbow of his wings failing in spiel.

the floor becomes a deep red,
the acorn waggles and girds in its success,
not realising that his compatriot he had spent all the moons with was long dead,
and it falls with the passing winds of distress.

It hit's the floor in the same place,
bouncing off the stone statue corpse,
the acorn stares to the bird's face,
knowing that it won’t peck anymore marks in its force.

the acorns rolls next to the bird in solemn shifting agreement,
knowing that it's barrier and breakdown is imminent for its bereavement.

You can't but help out a broken bird
With broken wings.
It's your poison and addiction.
You just want to see everyone fly.
But what will you do?
When there are no more birds
With broken wings?
What will you do?
When they have all flown away
And there's no one to help you
With your own broken wings?