Little Bird

Little Bird I walk along through wooded hills 'mid quaking asp and daffodils, Indian Paintbrush standing tall, while summer's breezes rise and fall. Bath tub springs, their icy flow, to chill my bones from head to toe. And then on flattened rock I lay, warming in the sun's soft ray. A little bird lives in this place, a bird of truth and peace and grace. When first I saw this precious thing, it lay on earth with broken wing. Its feathers bent from weathered storm, yet still it held its tender form. I thought of how it once could fly, as tears rushed forth in silent cry. I took it up within my hand, to lift it from the sinking sand; I took it up within my soul and held it there to not let go. I took it up, its every part, and held it tight against my heart. I mended up its little wing, and coaxed it once again to sing. So, now it flies so true and strong and sings to me its mystic song. On velvet wing in perfect flight, it guides me through the darkest night. It sings its song so sweet and clear, and stays right by me, ever near. So, Little Bird now owns my heart and from those wings I'll never part. At last my place I've surely found, with Little Bird of golden down. I'll never leave this wooded hill of quaking asp and daffodil. For all I have or ever shall, is Little Bird with feathers frill, And that's all right, for I've been freed, my little bird is all I need. Dogbane a.k.a. Grant JohnsonI wrote this for my, now, wife, before we were married, kvwriter (Kelly), it's the story of how we saved each other. And, it's an expression of the fact that love is real, and there is that special someone, if we're lucky enough to find them. We got lucky. Written March 14th, 1998 © on Feb 14 2002 12:14 PM PST   0 • 12