Bird

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Everything is but a feather.


And life must be the tree;
hide through pain and frightening weather
or learn to fly and be set free


Prints on the ground, a flightless thing
drawn low, head tilted up;
a useless beak, no tune to sing
pennies thrown into a cup


A plummet to the ground did fall
a heart torn up to bits;
but stories are nothing at all
if the fabric has no rips


So see, soul child so full of dark,
and remember what you heard;
Everything is but a feather,
But feathers make a bird.

Feathers: A Book of PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now