I dug a hole in the ground,
and buried my swollen heart.
And although the sun was out,
and it was raining all around—
it never did grow into
this world’s beautiful art.
Not because it was broken,
and could not be fixed,
or because the world laughed
at me, just for kicks.
And not because I’d died
whilst trying to reach
the pleasant sky.
It was because my heart
had been perfect all along—
just right, all this time.
And I never knew,
nor could I believe it to be true...
or else I’d have lost my mind.
And inside the egg
that which I nest,
I am able to quietly rest—
and see to it that
I may eventually hatch
with the next batch
of baby chickadees,
as my heart may sprout
into a lovely giving tree.
And you see, I may
even sing on and about,
upon the branch of my heart...
as I have become the art
that I’d been wanting to see
since the beginning
of eternity’s first moon.
And within a dirt-covered
cocoon—an egg upon the branch
of my heart—
my veins may run dry.
And as I die,
my heart will still grow.
And I hope you know
that this bird’s song
had been perfect all along,