Poem for Grace
This is for Grace who died today,
a small, weak bundle of cinnamon feathers
huddled, the first time I saw her, in the shadows of a grim cage,
she suddenly awoke and ran towards me,
staring unblinking, her face pressed to the bars:
do not leave me here,
do not leave me.
And so I took her, and gave her
three little years of space and air,
with the breeze to stroke her feathers, and the rain on her wings,
and the sun that kissed some life into her frail body
until this morning
when her spirit like a surprised bird
suddenly rose up
and flew far far away
3.6.2001
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