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The Bird

The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in yours hands
and learn to fly.

Listen again.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.

Only words
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks about the end of cages.

Patrick Lane

A new idea I had for doing a poem of the month.  I thought this one was appropriate for the season (though we have birds all seasons) and as a writer.  I really love the simple language Patrick Lane uses here to express something very meaningful.