Odd Bird
An odd bird sings when the night is stillShe brings me things like clouds and leaves
Weaving worlds from words she always will
Fly into day, the morning eaves
Nowhere is there someone else
Drifting through the air on alabaster feather wings
When the Night is still she always will
Like clouds and leaves, she brings me things . . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1113 times
Written on 2019-01-07 at 20:24
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