once i dreamt i was a saviour

the world—my world—sits in my hands

nestled, a baby bird

rescued from the uncaring tree

beautiful and hopeful

oh,

a broken wing.

my world is everything 

to me

everyone says so

it has spent a year in my home

i have yet to give it a name

once i do, it’s mine, isn’t it?

my world is so innocent 

so fragile

so inconsequential 

i think i’ll give it back to the tree

oh,

the broken wing.