Crest curving like the crescent moon,
And fluttering wings grown so soon.
Sweet hymns I sang in church to the Lord;
But at home similar songs had soared.
I wrapped my velvet, ivory fingers around.
The trust was in not making a sound.
Grey, white, and yellow–each would hug,
In feathery softness against my neck snug.
“Be good, be gentle,” I often would say;
Those beady eyes blinked an “okay.”
Chirp chirp, chirp chirp; the sound of content.
If only his last had not been in torment.
⌊ © Serena Delgado (June, 2018) ⌉