She cups a small bird in her hand,
born this year, feathers silken, soft,
she encourages flight, holds it aloft,
so warm, so weak, it trembles.

She wheels her chair along smooth garden ways,
wishes there were more she could do, she prays.
A feather drops, drifts, wafts;
the bird stays in the hayloft.

She keeps the silence of the barn,
leaves the bird in its haven, whereon
the creature stills, mute and calm,
scented hay burns the air as a balm.

The gentle girl returns the next day,
no drama, the bird has flown away.
The girl in the chair and her protégé.

Polly Stretton © 2020

Revised for napowrimo #9