new poem

oh, innocent, broken things!
-by me
*******************************
Water sprayed everywhere when I saw her,
the tiny, fragile baby bird
fallen out of some anonymous tree,
no feathers to break falls,
barely even eyes opened.

her beak opened and closed needlessly,
crying for help that would never come.
what kind of mother does not drop anything
to find her fallen child?
surely that is nature, not nurture,
at its finest.

a feeling arose in me as i realized my utter futility
to be savior for this innocent, broken thing.
and all those feelings i'd been playing hide-and-seek with for years
returned.
we will die.
and it will always be worse for those who die last
and are forced to watch the death of innocent, broken things
with impotence, futility, and many tears.
it was the same with you.
it will always feel the same with you.

the dying baby bird, with her tender, veiny skin and broken wings,
has the better part of the deal.
of the two of us,
only i will remember this moment
past tonight.