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.