Wounded bird

Beautiful,
colors woven around her body,
she sings sweetly on her branch.

You wouldn’t know,
by looking at her,
Or by hearing her song,
But this sweet bird is a wounded bird.

She masks it to those around her,
Shining through her days.
But inside she aches from bruises long ago
and promises, recent.

She is not broken,
Nor will she be,
She sways with the tree when the winds blow strongly.

She makes her nest,
One twing,
string,
branch,
at a time,
Weaving a life that cradles her.

Her healing season has come,
Nestled gently in her loving surround,
She weeps quietly,
Mourning what was,
Dreams no longer shared.

Today,
She rests.
Learning,
Growing,
Welcoming,
And healing.

Soon,
she will fly.

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