no birds were harmed in the making of this poem
The robin's egg rolled far away from the haven tree. A wee devil's hole in its side. I took a one -eyed peak...nothing left inside. What to do with such a perfect shade of broken blue. Feed it to the trash heap hag. To spend its final days with rotting fruit and metal rags... So, I placed it gently on a nightstand. Beside a wind-up clock. Now I'm playing mother bird. To caged time and unborn songs.
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