The Death of the Bird
For every bird there is this last migration:
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.
Dreamer. Wanderer. Artist.
Barefoot lady who talks to birds. Who loves the wind and her morning coffee.
Who sings out loud and still believes in magic.
Perfectly imperfect, and that suits me just fine.