The grounded bird doesn't understand
why the air suddenly betrayed his wings,
how the wind changed to splinters and arrows,
and his smiling world, once so wide and neat,
condensed into a tangle of dead leaves.
It bothers me so terribly
when I cannot understand:
I am always half-expecting
the world to break, and I lose faith
that it will ever truly mend.
Do I think my comprehension
can stall the unthinkable--
as if I am whole and only the world
is broken?
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