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?



Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , ,

4 replies

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

    Like

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