Never Lost

Our wrongs are never lost.
They abide,
rusty chain link dividing the neighborhood.
We can follow their path to nowhere
and we always go back to the beginning.

The nameless birds
against the November sky,
features of the featureless —
they have stopped singing,
like our wrongs, as we turn
collars against the wind, believing
denial a simple thing, as though winter
was something we could win.

Our wrongs are never lost.
They come to us again
one fine spring morning,
born from wiry nests
hidden in branches,
decked in new plumage —
a flock of new hope.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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