Like a baby bird.
Like a broom among brooms...
in a broom closet.
Like a tiny parrot.
Like a whistle.
Like a little song.
A song sung by a forest...
within a forest...
a thousand years ago.
(the unbearable lightness of being)
RIC S. BASTASA
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-can-sleep-sleep-in-my-arms/
