Feathered sadness

The bird was sitting amid the branches,
unmovable, almost invisible,
Tweeting so low, sounded like weeping.
Ruffles from other wings didn’t disturbed him.
The frenetic chirping of the other birds,
and low flights, and straw hunting,
just promoted two or three little steps to the side, nothing else.
Wings meant nothing, not even the overrated freedom,
Envied by so many.
And the sad tweeting continued for a long time,
Until the sun went down,
And all the birds silenced in reverence to the night.

Freshly Picked Words

Picking words as if picking ripe peaches
Hanging from a branch.
Available, enjoyable.
Carefully crafting sentences
As if making preserve to last long winters.
Feeding the soul with the unpredictable sweetness
Of the nectar within.
Writing, summer exercise
As if there was no tomorrow.
Enjoying the sun-ripe transiency of words,
That may soon be collected into jars,
And put to rest inside dark cabinets.
Cabinet words are not as good as freshly picked ones.