Day 71

Everything you have had to forget, day after day.
In the corner of the room, a bird that lost its way
and flew in through the open window:  sat,
huddled behind the gauze-white curtain, chirping
but not hopping, his wings not moving. You approached
softly.  It was the third month of the bombings,
the radio was speaking of more who had died.
Many who had lost their way.  Were you there? Here?
A breeze stirred the curtain.  The bird 
shivered a little.  You put out your cupped hand.
You learned it was not impossible to pick him up.
He was warm.  So weightless you could barely feel him.
Everything you have forgotten;  yet there are some
who might still be saved.  Hard to awaken day after day, hard 
to keep remembering.  A bird in the corner:
on the carpet, behind the gauze-white
curtain.  There is no choice, you told
yourself or the bird, except to keep moving.  You carried him
to the window, held him so he could feel the bright air.
Then opened your hands and he flew. The leaves
moved gently and they received him.
The bird flew toward them, dipping and straightening.