What's In The Box

Living in a box is not really living

What's In The Box

A perfect bird takes flight on yellow wings

Dipped in golden sunbeams from pure light

Crimson days are etched with feathers pointed

Darting in and out of dangling limbs of trees

Made possible only by a gust of steady wind

On borrowed time through opened arms of love

Stretching out for miles on tomorrows time

Songs echo in the forest on the softer side

Birds sing there is no sorrow without sin

The Paraclete is no ordinary creature

It figures to be settled in by Christmas

Into a Trinity with all the trimmings living

When Christmas comes there is a pretty box

Nestled under the tree with lights and ornaments

Colorful wrapping with movement coming from inside

Outside is snow, below the bow is action

We pray that someone made some holes

For breathing is important for living things with souls

Bring plenty of towels and water in case of birth

Is that a chirp or something with a song of hope

If it is perfect can we keep it

If it has feathers should we let it go