"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." ~Thomas Gray
"Poetry unites." ~Anon
"Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it." ~Emily Dickinson
Written by Melissa Crowe
She lives in Portland, Maine, USA
Her blog: Milk and Paper
I sit, spine-stitched, and weave wing to bird
in this bed of twig-spit: we do what we
can. Everybody's fragile as a swan neck.
Everybody under feather-puff has bones
of glass. In one hand a needle and thread
but who said she who makes repairs can't
also be the one to make the tears.
I think I ripped these birds to shreds. It's due
to me they need their heads attached, their
small hearts held while I make my
stabs of love. Oh, mother, what happened
in your nest. Oh, mother, I am grateful
for the free fall, the ground smack. Even though
I need a mend, I won't be coming back.
Originally published on writer's personal blog.
Posted with consent of the writer.
Note: All written material is copyrighted by the individual writer and/or blog author, and may not be used without written consent. Copyright © Breathing Poetry 2009. All Rights Reserved.
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