The Bird and the Broken Heart

The Bird and the Broken Heart

I sit upon a fragile branch,

with pieces resting in my hands.

The red bird watches silently,

as if it somehow understands.

The sky is pale and far away,

the evening air is still and cold.

I press the broken shape I hold,

against the emptiness below.

The bird sings soft, a gentle sound,

to keep my spirit from the edge.

Its song becomes a silver thread,

that pulls me back from hopeless depths.

I never thought my heart could break,

and still remain within my chest.

But here I sit, and here I breathe,

refusing not to love again.

The bird stays close and does not flee,

until my sorrow starts to ease.

It spreads its wings and flies away,

but leaves a quiet peace in me.

And in that calm, I start to see,

that even hearts in scattered parts,

can learn to beat a steady rhythm,

and grow again from where they start.