soon spring will land on my pillow

like every fading dream before it

and all I hope for

is that those birds which nested there once

those beautiful creatures

the vigilant protectors of the unhatched egg

who left an empty nest when spring had gone

will return again

hatching the young wingspreaders

the alacrity of their leap for me to view in despair

and hope for their safe journey;

oh, I beg, let not a solemn feather pass the iris of my eye