A little green house
dangles from the rope of life
held by burnt branches
on a rooting tree
Here a rest stop for the ever roaming
Just a few birds eating from its nutty feed
is all it needs
Right now the air hangs still
the feed is empty
and the little birdhouse barely breathes
I ask you…
If the whole world is the green house
does that make me its timely visitor?
To be this quiet
is to hold the world up
in a soundless grasp
For I am not the passerby
nor the ephemeral guest
I am the rope
the dangling rope
Holding everything up ~