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It hung there, dormant stirred by only wind,
A barely twisting nod, the greeting swing.
And armed by one with ivy loose entwined,
It torqued awaiting,  someone or  something.
At last, it failed,  aground with heated flash,
Amid a heaving, long forgotten rain.
The aged friend lay bent, half burned to ash,
Unheard by men, with time to entertain.
And in the brushy end,  a nest had laid.
A card’nals roost once favored by the flood
of angered lonely sacredness displayed,
And naught divine could fix the broken brood.
The beauty’s not in color, shape, or kind;
But lies within the all perceiving mind.

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