The Bird of Death
It comes for me, too.
No matter where we are
in the turning of the seasons,
I will no longer try
to hide from the bird.
Because it pecks
at the edge of winter,
this world is overfull
with the force of life.
It is because
the bird comes
that the seasons
are beautiful.
It is because
the bird has come
that flowers bloom.
Let it ride the wind—
there is no need to resist.
The bird
is already on its way.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
