thinking on a
book I gave away with a
opened heart-- a
bird flew trembling
expecting a
wind to lift it up high to a
far-off unknown land
I flatten the dog-eared pages of the book with a
silly girl-like devotion to a
mortal God with a
handsome face
I handed it over with both hands--a
prayer that something may come of a
book as precious and yet as simple as a
favorite. That my act was a
wish as simple as the gesture
But misunderstanding is a
common thing, more common than sincerity
or foolishness or girlish dreams
In misunderstandings, birds never take flight but turn into
paper, they crumple and burn
no matter how refined the words are
and no book
no matter how beautiful can save it.