Small white edges poking out from the tan grains.
The wind picks up and shifts the sand, revealing more,
The tiny bowl is filled to the brim.
On the underside is a pale blue, a robin’s egg blue.
The fragile edges chip away as I pick up the abandoned shelter,
The breeze blows around my hair and knocks it into the shell,
I cup my hands together, protecting it from the elements.
In my hand is the forgotten home of a baby bird,
In my hand is the start of a new life.
Sadly life goes in a circle,
An uncontrollable circle,
A neverending cycle of life and death.
As one door opens another must close,
Only sometimes we aren’t prepared for the door to move,
And we are left staring at a closed door.