One Last Hymn from a Gentle Bird

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) ⌉

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