Of Little Birds

There’s an old tree,
by the pavement’s edge

Shriveled and shrunk,
but not quite dead

For hollow within,
and hollow to witness

The ancient oak weathers,
as it withers

Has tales to tell,
aplenty each night

In the songs of the winds,
and the silence that they fill

The chalice of its grief,
so close to its brim

Shakes and shutters,
with each whim of the wind

Broken and bent,
so close, so low

Its tries to stand up,
stand right and tall

Holding on,
an ephemeral embrace

Hey, little bird on branch;
chirp loud, chirp unafraid