should be writing papers. wrote this instead. whoops.

Wounded

My brother and I once found

a small baby bird

beneath a tree in the yard.

It had fallen too early,

broken the little parts

of its body, and we didn't

know what to do except

put it inside a box,

sit at the base

of the tree and watch

our hurt little treasure

speak in wounded

bird cries, shake with fear.

I don't think we knew,

for many moments

at least, that it would never

fly again, or that its mother

had been off looking

for worms, or that we would

watch her come back

and make flying sweeps

to search for him,

or that she would cry

in the tones of grief -

something we could, even then

understand the meaning of.

When my brother got bored

I sat there at the tree base

with the wounded thing,

and I loved it with a strength

bigger than my age,

loved every part of its brokenness

and I think I believed,

truly, and with depth,

that I loved it so much that it would

rise up from the box

and fly.

I still believe,

with a deepness,

that love,

at its greatest moments,

dreams.