This little bird sang
from time to time
just outside our
window; he must
have been nestled
in the giant Afghan
pine that towers
over our house,
but I could not see
him when I looked
out, his song interrupted
when I moved the curtain,
he longed to be heard
but cared not to be seen,
that sweet chirping voice
behind the scenes
giving out without
receiving any accolades,
beauty without ego
sharing a simple gift
because he was made
to sing.
—C.L. Fisher, May 2021
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Poetic Meanderings 