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A Bird Named Hope
November 15, 2018
The haze of dusk descends
Upon the desolate farm inside of me,
Dusting thin spiderwebs with dew drops,
Coating the hollow wooden barn floors with condensation.
The smell of rotting wood and stale humidity,
Hangs densley in the paneled room.
A bird named Hope lies dead.
If you listen carefully,
You can almost hear her wings flapping faintly.
If you listen carefully,
You can almost hear the ghost of her beating heart.
© Liz K., Rockford, MI
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