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Shane Whidby

Birds of Mere Being

At the edge of the mind,
A gold- feathered bird,
Roosting with chicks,
Of foreign songs.

At the edge of the heart,
A void is consuming,
A nest of hope and wanting,
Empty, waiting.

When the bird’s age, the songs complete,
With golden wings, they take flight,
Roosting again in an empty nest,
Sharing songs that stir.

In time, the birds will fly,
With brazen feathers,
And roost in empty nests,
And we will be content.


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