The Bird

The bird that sings inside me,
perches on a branch of myself,
builds its nest in my heart

It weaves together twigs
that it has found inside me,
scraps of the inner green

It lays eggs with shells of sky
more delicate than a robin’s,
their stuff subtler than substance

When I hear the bird now,
I can’t tell if it’s the first bird,
or some son or daughte…