Bird

Feathered wings take flight,
soar against the sky of blue.
I still miss you so.

I still remember
your clipped wings recovering
despite the raw wounds.

To me, you were like
a phoenix, flying though they
fought hard to ground you.

When I dream of you,
it is with beating wings and
soaring, joyous heart.


Loss

I can't recall the sound
of your voice, or your laughter.
Nine years you've been gone.


Plans
You don't know yet,
but I've got plans for you.
Plans which involve talking,
laughing,
and possibly rug burn.

Labels: creativity, poetry