A crooked birdhouse
Is hanging from a limb
Swinging to and fro
It meanders in the wind
I do not see the finches
Darting from its door
There is no nest of twigs
Built upon its floor
The emptiness inside
A sad echo of its life
When chicks called endlessly
A living lilting fife
In this quiet moment
When the world begins to wake
I watch life’s ebb and flow
Like birds who’ve pulled up stake
Poetry and Verse 