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A Bird That Sings by Deborah Russell My poems perish with the fire - ashes, trace elements like stars flicker in the deep of night You never understood my poems though you sometimes pretended, enough for me to believe There is a bird that sings at night I hear the lift of wings in flight and the depth of silence To a tree in bloom it is nothing, to one who understands; it is all and everything I create a wreath for ashes, tied with the mystical flesh of a heart, the love which imparts though never returns, but, why should it? I fill my eyes with sky - my ears with serenades, I believe in love and a bird that sings at night . . . All those dreams outside your dusty cage Return to:
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