A tiny gray bird am I
with down that whispers
lullabies. Clean white
slate to write reviews,
I wait for recognition.
At the opalescent gate
of editorial lake
I overshare, and at small me,
mother of pearl birds
squint their screwed up faces.
I am blushing like a bride
with things to hide–
but they’ve the dust blown
off now. I did it. To myself
I sing softly:
You are a secret, little bird,
like a locked oil lamp maze.
You choose what to light
in your snowy night.
Not even the wind need know.
Keep your string for yourself. You need
no one else.
Paper cotton balls sleep me to drift.
Written by Anonymous
Reflections 