iceland

poem-thing by me: passersby

Empty branches
are briefly filled,
a hundred birds
alighting like some
thousand new-born
leaves with feathers,
wings, and noisy
tongues.

Moments later,
they startle, fly,
and are all gone.

Bereft, the tree
stands in naked
humility and
does not ask why,
or wonder when
(if)
its visitors will
someday return.
Indexing: