There’s a wicker bird standing in the corner of a room on a bookcase
For most, it does not whistle, nor chirp. But usually, with time at its slowest, it gathers Dust, But does not shake.
It loves a woman because she values it. Beauty. Its pattered, painted, purple feathers adorning a big enough button head. To only her, it sings songs. Gladness in the morning.
It loves this man for his courage to even bring it mention. For his hospitality and the comfort of seeing eye to eye. All knowing, that without it, this man does not have a Home.
But what it truly loves most, this little wicker bird, is the boy. As this boy does That of no one else. Being the only one who knows this little bird’s name, he allows me to fly…