Morning stains the sky
with blackbird wings
carrying secrets pulled
from the summer moon.
Beneath feathered
oak limbs Trust sits
patient, still…
waiting for answers
to interpret questions.
What was, is, can be
gathers notes from
caged throats to place on
tongues bold enough
to sing of freedom.
Comments
A truly beautiful poem, woven with an artful hand. The song is one of my all-time favourites.
ZQ