The Thorn / Michael Kwack
It seemed a big bird had flown;
For, onto the desk of my own,
A feather was falling,
Through the air fluttering.
As if in a dream did I gaze:
A tiny bird it was!
I stretched an arm,
And the bird got on my palm.
The whole body, in bright gold,
Was the wing of this bird.
Should I hold it on my palm?
Let it go afloat in sunshine?
Or, lest it one day fly away,
Hang it high above the doorway?
I pulled open the tool cabinet,
And took a hammer and nails out.
All of a sudden I started feeling
My left hand oddly empty and aching:
It was a tiny golden thorn
That had pricked my vacant palm.