For He Will Fly

For there was a tree so oddly fair, that bare leaves of green so grassy green and beautifully seen, like an ecleptic musical sound of fluttering bees, muttering from hives at free;

And in this tree, so oddly born, scorn to isolation like winter - lay a bird so weary weak, could not fly for food to seek, who lay dormant, peeking-peering, leaning out so sorely seeking another life, somewhere crisp, to vessel himself from rest, nestle himself in hays of straw to nest.

And he was alone with broken wing, that he could not swing to fly aflutter, with wings astudder towards that shiny sun, so lovely thudded in his eyes, Oh my! - Watching other birds rise to ethereal blue skies, unworldly fantastic wings steering kindly wise;

Dreaming of days before, of flapping lore, chirping and flying to lands swiftly soaring, flying to trees of vivid root and seed, to look upon the earth livid, with mind at ease.