changing of the seasons
little bird with no song to sing
asks the wind permission
to borrow a tune
she remembered hearing the
morning of her birth
it was a little ditty a child
could pick up
rife with high notes
and often mistaken as a flute
or a fife or a piccolo
the wind carried her voice
far beyond the hills
touching the loneliest of creatures
in search of comfort and warmth
before the inevitable frost
may two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
A charming poem , John – though I could do without the thought of the inevitable frost – LOL
thank-you, Kathleen, but I don’t think we have much to worry about for a while ;`)
Great poem, John. A nice homage to the fleeting nature of our days. It also reminds me of this passage from Stephen King:
“Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.”
Thank you for your comments on this poem, Millie. It’s always a pleasure hearing from you.
This reminds me a little of the mechanical bird in H-C. Anderssen’s “the Nightingale”.. the frost mimicking the breakdown of its mechanism…
I’m not familiar with that one…I’ll have to check it out. Thanks for your comments, Björn,
Oh, now this one is lovely. You have me misty eyed.
I’m delighted you enjoyed this one, Melanie!
I have come back and read this poem many times now. I love it. I say it aloud and better than you .. lol
thank you so much, Denise, I am honored indeed
So lovely! 💜
Thank you so much, Carol.