Of the House Wren

There is a bird,

A maternal little bird

Who visits the

Westerly-peak of

My little green house

But once a long gray year.

There is a bird,

A motherly little bird,

Shaped like a teardrop,

Brown and gray

With a sharp black beak

Pointed

Toward the end of the day.

There is a bird,

A wise little bird

Perched silent and unmoving,

A guardian of seemingly

Unimportant things,

A guardian of the voices small.

There is a bird,

A knowing little bird,

With striped-black wings,

And an anticipating look

Above a

Lovely spotted vest,

An anomaly of things

Uncertain.

There is a bird,

An occasional little bird,

“Who,”

I sometimes wonder,

“Are you?” “And what,

It your purpose in this

Particular place?”

“What is so special about

My space?”

2

There once was a bird,

A hushed little bird,

Who was always deep,

With lovely spoken words,

Of a thoughtful and a

Soulful kind,

Full of voice,

And full of mind.

There once was a bird,

A silent little bird,

Who sang to me often and long,

Of a charming scene,

With a wonderful song.

This little bird,

This thoughtful little bird,

Prompted me once to write

Of the Visiting bird.

3

There once was a bird,

A hushed little bird,

A black little bird,

And a silent little bird,

Whose word about the

Brown and knowing

Little bird

I

Have always kept.