A box labelled ‘my frustration’
‘my resentment’.
A hardening of the heart.
The bird of compassion has flown
out of the window
sits on a branch out of reach.
It cannot be coaxed back inside.
The box is an unwanted gift
neither wishes to own.
I think you have generated it and
wish you to take it back.
You have no knowledge of creating it.
Passed back and forth as
emotional tennis
feeds it, allows it to grow.
I see the box for what it is
a shadow.
A small grey cloud seeking to
become a thunderstorm.
A breath of wind seeking to
become a tornado.
Lay it outside the door.
Let the softness of the rain
take way its heat.
Let the freshness of the wind
blow away all its conflicting parts
until nothing remains
except true friendship.
The bird of compassion has returned.
© 4 Mar 18
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