Man
The warm handed man kneels 10 feet tall, And nestled in his pocket is a bird. He picks the seeds from the crop he sows, And though they are small he is undeterred
When day turns dim and the night falls cold, From his jacket he tears loose thread. He scavenges and seeks what others fail to reap, And collects from the paths once tread,
When his mind turns bored he crafts with his hands, With the things that he finds once lost. He sows and he tailors and threads and he nails, While he sits on his chair of moss.
He wanders in the morning in the garden he has grown, And the sun warms up his hands. He lays in wait in his well loved cave, And soon he sees a bird lands.
From his pocket he pulls the thread he wove, And the seeds he found fall too, His thread tailored jacket much fit for a bird, And the seeds for a small beak to chew.
They sleep and play in their well loved cave, And toward the bird turns the man, And now and forever and for worse and for better, She sleeps in his well warmed hands.
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Posted May 27, 2022, 8:17 PM UTC