The Little Blue Bird

Her jewelry box, a wooden yawn,

full of tangled chains, half-drawn

memories of sparkle. Down deep,

where secrets might try to keep

a little air, I found this thing.

A ceramic bird, no wing

quite right, one eye a faded blue.

No pair, no sense, nothing new

about it. Just chipped, small,

it didn't belong at all.

I held it, cold and strangely dense,

a little, silent permanence.

Now I look at it, this lonely charm,

and think of her small, cupped arm,

protecting some small, private bruise.

A tiny weight. What did she lose

or find, in this small, dumb bird?

A feeling, maybe, unheard.