From my distant branch

I see the nest of broken birds.

They are huddled close together

And shielded from the sun.

 

They’ve suffered wounds that nothing seems to staunch—

These beautiful, aching, broken birds—

They sit and shiver, trapped forever,

In a life and a world they can never out run.

 

I always wonder: “why do you never fly?

Are you choosing not to, or was there no one there to teach you?

Why do you sit in the quiet dark, and suffer all alone?

How do we not see the signs and recognize your pain?”

 

Maybe you’d been loud before, but you did not make a single cry,

The day you stood on shaky legs above the mourning dew,

Looked down, stepped out, decided to be under stone

Instead of facing another day filled with shadows and rain.

 

The nest holds one less broken bird, one less fragile being,

And I’m terrified one morning I will rise to find another—

Another silent bird choosing life under stone

Rather than face a sky every day they feel they will never reach.

 

I hope you did not convince others to follow, to run from the life you’re fleeing;

That the impulse to fall under stone is something they can smother;

That they will realize they are never truly alone;

That with a little help, the sky is something they can reach.