The Broken Bird

I held a bird
in my hand,
small and injured,
warm and soft.
Its heart beat wildly--
a tickle of feathers
a scratch of feet--
as it struggled
to gain the air.

I caught my breath,
and said a prayer
while I held fast,
hands cupped round
its desperate body,
as if I could keep
its fragile life
from slowly ebbing
away.

Soar

I hear the eagle’s cry
far overhead.
Its beauty pierces
my heart to its depths--
lifting its wings
soaring the skies
riding the currents
into infinity.
So fierce.
So solitary.

Something within me
stirs to life
as I watch its circling
and listen to its song.
I feel a mix
of kinship and longing.
I feel its strength
and its freedom
and its thrum of life
quicken within.

Heaven

There’s nothing as wondrous
as the love of a child
when he wraps his arms around you--
hands like weighty butterflies
resting and fluttering on your back
face soft and smooth at your chin
hair soft and silky at your cheek
breath soft and warm at your ear
voice sweet and true and trusting
as he whispers
I love you.

The Cry

The cry of an eagle
high overhead
a mournful wail
piercing the air
searching for prey
or praying for union
I don’t know which.

But its cry
seizes my heart--
as surely as talons
seize the mouse--
hot and pounding
fighting for life.

Caught

My mind writhes with
words to write. If
only I had the time to
and the freedom to
let it run wild for
hours at a stretch to
get it all out without
frequent demands that
often interrupt.

We sit together,
your head on my arm. You
ask me if I will
always love you.
But my question is, will
you always love me? Am
I mother enough to
balance our needs, all
yours as a child and
mine as an adult?

Guilt has me in
its humid embrace and
halts my growth as
your mother and as
the writer deep within.
How to blend my
love for you and
my creative drive to
satisfy us both?
I can’t help but
feel caught.