The name of this discarded cigarette package caught my eye as I walked past.
The songbird of the soul is Hope,
joyful in times of plenty,
present as times grow lean,
likely to find other areas
when the cold blast of winter threatens.
It can be crushed by the smallest child
or sucked into the largest jet,
yet nervousness and nimbleness
combine to avoid destruction.
as the songbird in Spring,
the first faint glimmer is
amplified to blinding