A house of dust and feathers flown,
In an unforgiving wind, too long alone.
A murder of crows jealously guard what they cannot have,
A flock of sparrows, to better fields, fly at long last.
Its weathered wood does not look above to the pale blue sky,
Indifferent clouds do not look down as they float by.
If we ask, these walls might tell of tales past long ago.
A voice on the wind then whispers: “We may never know.”
Thanks to my friend Carole D. For permission to use her photo.
Posted in Nature
Tagged bird, birdhouse, blue, cloud, crow, feathers, field, fly, house, poem, poetry, sky, sparrow, tale, wall, weathered, wind, wood
Watching the beauty as it unfolds,
More and more, the more I’m old.
The truth’s in there, or so I’m told.
The brightness of a summer day,
How a sparrow on its way,
Flaps its wings and seems to say:
“Over the hill you will find,
Something of a different kind.
The beauty in truth and,
The truth in beauty lends
Such sight to see until the end.