She stooped to scoop
the featherless nestling
that lay breathless
on the hard stone yard
-- fallen from its home of twigs.

Her thoughts flew back
forty years
to the maternity wing.
He arrived
entwined in his lifeline
and still.
They hurried him away
in a well washed blanket.
One brief glimpse
of his shrouded body
aroused grief like a vulture
to feed fiercely inside her.

She cradled the bird’s fragile body
in motherly hands,
humming a lullaby
She had not sang to her bird
or cuddled him.
There was no ceremony--
he was buried
with a stranger’s corpse,
at an unknown location.

She remembered his empty crib
stored in the attic
with the soft white shawl,
that never swathed his body --
and heard the mother bird squawking
in her empty nest.

Tears were forty years old.

Near the sycamore, where its nest
snuggled into the branches
she dug a grave --
wrapped the frail frame
in a remnant of lint
and placed it in an egg box coffin.
Poppy seeds were scattered in the soil
for remembrance.

When their crimson buds bloom
she gives thanks that humanity
has embraced infant death,
and still yearns to know --

what did her bird look like
and where does he sleep now?

------- Author's Notes -------

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