Odd Bird

An odd bird sings when the night is still
She brings me things like clouds and leaves
Weaving worlds from words she always will
Fly into day, the morning eaves

Nowhere is there someone else
Drifting through the air on alabaster feather wings
When the Night is still she always will
Like clouds and leaves, she brings me things . . .



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 1388 times
Written on 2019-01-07 at 20:24

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