Poem: His Hands in His Pockets

I twiddle that twig we plucked from the tree line,

but I’d sew it on again, the leaves I plucked too,

if the forest would give you back to me.

Do you remember the trees? Remember the birds?

Oh, you loved their song. You so sweetly sang it back to them

when you were alone–but I could hear you as if you were

next to me.

And they miss you; they miss your song–

one bird sits beside me. He sits on that one branch,

his hands in his pockets–silent, searching–

and waits.

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