Sunrays pour through the canopy


    onto the small creature


    I’ve named Melanie.


    She’s my best friend.


    We dance together every weekend,


    and every time she lands on my doorstep


    is one I know I’ll never forget.


    Today, her colorful wings wrap me


    into a tapestry of love


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    like a mother’s hug


    right before she’s gone.


    Her feathers shape the sun


    into a million dazzling rays


    as she unknowingly chirps


    to the beat of the construction down the block.


    She’s a brilliant creature of Earth,


    but she can’t stay.


    She comes from the same dirt as us,


    but won’t see the next day.


    With Melanie, I laughed


    And twirled


    And danced,


    ignoring the gases rising from my land


    when the hour for action was at hand.


    When I was near Melanie,


    the world was free.


    If I acted sooner,


    would she still be next to me?


    The belief that there is time


    is a lie commonly told


    by old men of crime


    who ignore nature’s helpless cries


    as the guillotine arrives


    behind our backs.


    It’s already carving into your neck.


    Behind the whites of your eyes,


    open your lids and find


    that the axe has already swung.


    That mother nature has already been hung.


    In your generation,


    in the years that you ignore


    the spirit on her deathbed,


    the lives that may end,


    off flies the heads


    of every single creature you hold dear,


    like Melanie, the bird who isn’t here.