Separation — A Poem

Weaving through

the misted morn,

through soft-furred edges

of gray chill,

I stirred a cloud of birds —

blackbirds, all.

As one, they rose,

an avian inhalation,

a gasp

of feathered wings;

when I only wish to be

the tree

in whose branches

they might alight.


Created with Nokia Smart Cam

“Misted” — C.Birde, 12/15

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s