The Wistful Bird
One day as I looked outside the window,
I saw a little bird resting,
On the branch of a tall brown tree,
She winked at me as the leaves rustled free.
She watched the furry squirrels,
Scuffling, scampering and balancing.
Down below she saw the ants,
Digging, dragging and hauling.
Up above the tree lies an empty nest
Where the cuckoo sings and rests.
Some parrots come and then flee,
Colorful plumages ruffle and shuffle,
Dry leaves rustle, crumple and fall,
The little bird rests still.
She ruefully looks towards the sky,
She flutters her wings as if to fly.
Perhaps she is scared or shy,
I will never know why.
She longs to soar into new heights,
But fears of being hurt.
Her feet are clipped to the branches,
As she dreads of what lies beyond.
It's time for the sun to set,
A tear trickles down her face.
She seeks freedom from her past,
But dreads of things unknown.
Countless stars shimmer on her wings,
She waits for the dawn to sing.
That night I was perturbed with a dream,
A wistful face broke into a rueful scream.
The rising sun brought cheerful chirps,
Curious I glanced outside the window,
And there she was singing her tune,
This tall brown tree is her paradise.
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