The Unearned Carving

In the drawer's deep, dusty keep,

among the broken pens that sleep,

my fingers brushed the smooth, cool wood.

A bird, carved fine, misunderstood

by me, its owner. A subtle splinter

on one soft wing, through summer, winter,

it has remained, a perfect thing.

A gift he gave, a quiet sting.

He said, "It made me think of you."

And I just nodded, turning blue

inside, where questions piled up high.

What part of me, beneath what sky,

felt worthy of this silent grace?

This feathered form, this peaceful face?

It smells of cedar, faint and deep,

a scent that memories try to keep.

I hold it now, too perfect, slight.

A weight of kindness, in the fading light.

I didn’t earn it, then or now.

Just hold it tight, and wonder how.