In his hands he held it,
That small and rather fragile thing
We call a bird;
And scarce a movement in its eye
And scarce a flutter in its wing
And would it die?
In his hands he held it
And felt the raging of the storm
That it had known;
And felt the strength of icy blast,
The heartless fury that had cast
A heavy blow.
In his hands he held it
And prayed that somehow it might know
The will to live;
That as it rested in his hands,
Encompassed round about and warmed,
New life might come.
In his hands he held it
And watched the mystery of the stir within,
The lifted head,
The slow recovery of a hope nigh gone,
The sense of moments yet to come,
Of songs to sing.
In his hands he held it,
That small and rather fragile thing
We call a bird;
And watched with tears within his eyes
As to the glory of the skies
It rose and flew.
Copyright – Patricia Todd.
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