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The Thorn

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.




◄ letter to spring

The Flower One Day ►


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