The Life of a Bluebird

There is nothing spectacular
About the life of a bluebird

I will be admired, I'm sure
At one point or another

When I stop to rest on a branch
In a garden
Always in a garden

A poet might see me
And comment on me

Make me a part
Of their everlasting art

I might be written down
In a diary or a journal

Someone will say--

'I saw a bluebird today and it meant...'

Well, I suppose it could mean
All kinds of things

But when I die
And I will die

Because all things do

When I die
I will not have meant much
To anybody
For any extended
Period of time

And though this sounds
Like a morbid statement

I can assure you
It is not

People put such a negative connotation
On the idea of brevity

Bluebirds don't

We fly in and out of lives
Environments, atmospheres

We make silent connections
And the move on

But we take care
Not to severe the connections

We carry them with us
Behind us

Like a string tied to our wings
So that one day
When we have taken our last flight
We will slowly land
Letting a thousand strings
Come silently down from the sky
Like invisible rain

No one will bury
Or mourn us

No one will say
They knew us
Better than any other bluebird

No one will feel the loss
Of us at all

And yet we will have flown

We will have flown
Through the sky

And made this world
A little more
Beautiful