Baby Bird is safe
in his Tree of Comfort,
but Baby Bird stares into the future, wide eyes open to all possibilities.
Baby Bird stands,
his legs strong enough to hold his weight; his feet planted firmly in the bark,
dirty with memories and mistakes.
Baby Bird bears a battened breath.
He opens his wings,
the winds of a new life whistling his name.
The trees are dark
But Baby Bird is ready to soar.
A house is only as strong as its foundation and trees only take root in fertile soil, avoiding rocks and going as deep as they can.
The wind tries, but will always fail at knocking the sky scraper down. There’s a reason mountains and hills don’t move.
Instead, they roll.
Though roads prove useful, the bridge is far more versatile. What else provides passage over and under?
But never through?
Birds can only fly so high. Cheetahs can only run so far. Man can only destroy so much.
Basking in the morning glow,
she breathes in lavender
and exhales worry
and never again will she be contained by the afternoon shade that plagues her and she’s as free as pollen in the wind, ready to plant herself
in the most fertile of soil
and build herself a new life
among the many different plants
and she’s ready to be among the birds
and the other animals
that will take her to new places
and teach her new ways of growing;
of spreading her leaves
what her seeds can really do
and she’s ready,
oh, is she ready,
and touch the sky
and be taller than the weeds that surround her. She’s ready for her full bloom.