the bird

I shelter the memory of you
protectively between the fingers
of my cupped hands, like a tiny
and vulnerable bird who had fallen
and rolled, like a fuzzy brown tennis ball
dropped,

in amongst the dry, sharp pine needles, down -

far below the nest

mama bird and papa
had built for it, and next, now
has been picked up
by a well-intentioned hellion, some
misunderstanding
child

who wants only to put it
all the way back up, but

can't.