What's In the Box

A perfect bird takes flight on yellow wings Dipped in golden sunbeams from pure light Crimson days are etched with feathers pointed Darting in and out of dangling limbs of trees Made possible only by a gust of steady wind On borrowed time through opened arms of love Stretching out for miles on tomorrows time Songs echo in the forest on the softer side Birds sing there is no sorrow without sin The Paraclete is no ordinary creature It figures to be settled in by Christmas Into a Trinity with all the trimmings living When Christmas comes there is a pretty box Nestled under the tree with lights and ornaments Colorful wrapping with movement coming from inside Outside is snow, below the bow is action We pray that someone made some holes For breathing is important for living things with souls Bring plenty of towels and water in case of birth Is that a chirp or something with a song of hope If it is perfect can we keep it If it has feathers should we let it go