A poem is like a bird.
Words poke their way
through the shell of your brain,
tentatively touching the page
with their baby beak.
You build a nest for them,
feed them worms
so their bones grow strong.
Nursing them diligently,
you protect them from harm.
For a time you mustn’t let
anyone approach,
lest their feathers snap
like twigs or their wings
wither and wilt away.
Night, however, turns to day
and with a guarded sigh
you watch your fledgling fly.
