, , , , ,

They soar and dive

And rest awhile

Upon the Hanging Tree,

The magpies, swifts

And nightingales

A hope a home to find.

With feathers preened

And beaks a-smile

They watch the straining boughs,

With hearts to pick

A song to sing

A matching pulse to find.

And on each branch

Each weighted form

Hangs heavy with its woe,

The swollen heart

In cold ice froze

And wooden to the touch.

The core-split flesh

In lost time aches

Soft whispers of its pain,

And on the bough

One metal heart

Rests silent unobserved.