BIRDIE SLEEPS.
Birdie sleeps, Clare said.
Bird’s dead, Granddad said,
Taking the still warm
Bird from the child’s small
Hands where it had been
Cupped like some precious
Jewel. Dead? Clare asked
Confused, watching her
Granddad’s huge hands take
The bird from her view.
Is that what all the
Small birdies do? Yeah
All go that way, Clare,
All go to the big
Maker in the sky.
Clare bit her tiny
Fingernail asking,
Why? Well kid, all things
Have to go sometimes:
Birds, cats, dogs, horses,
Me, you, Grandma, and
The old guy who sits
Outside the drugstore
Begging for dough; all
Got to go to the
Big maker in the
Big blue sky when their
Number’s up. Clare sat
Wondering where the
Birdie had gone. Had
Granddad put it in
His pocket or where?
She continued to
Wonder with her blue
Eyed stare. Is the small
Birdie in your big
Coat pocket or is
It someplace elsewhere?
She softly pleaded.
It’s tucked away in
My old coat pocket
Along with my pipe
Tobacco and my
White peppermint creams.
I will bury it
Later, Granddad said,
With my all broken
Promises and your
Grandma’s dreams. Clare looked
At her empty hands,
The warmth of the bird
Still there, it had left
Two small brown feathers
There for her to share.
