Tags
Afterlife, Bird Poem, Bird Poems, CoronaVirus, Courage, Covid19, Death, Dying, Forgiveness, Hope, Infinite, Life, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spirit, Spring, Survival
“There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.” Robert Frost
Yet, they do fall, and silent, rot
beneath the changing bow.
Birds gather to peck the flesh
making less of loss,
Or perhaps, no loss at all.
You see,
the Universe claims everything
we leave behind.
Our regrets, too,
like spoiled fruit,
eventually fall away
scavenged by the sun.
Seeds are revealed
inside what we took as dead.
Trust me, next spring
there will be a new start.