For all its life, it ends in a poem

img_5230I laid the little bird inside a planting pot
with a leafless plant, a veil of snow on top—
and as the wind picked up I imagined
it coaxed the little bird’s soul along,
somewhere new—
and when I held it in my hand
and felt it stir, did it feel my thumb
stroke its side, a last comfort
for its life? And as I set it down
and stepped back,
I wondered
how we could think
we have souls
but theirs is less,
somehow?

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to For all its life, it ends in a poem

  1. byebyebeer says:

    Lovely. And exactly.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ksbeth says:

    beautiful and i’m going to call it even in the soul department.

    Like

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