The weight of the world means nothing to me

This poem, entitled “Bird,” was written by my sister, Brook Maher. She sent it to me earlier in the week.

I am a being with plumage fair
I scan the sea, I slice the air
I fill with music when I speak
I carry offerings in my beak
I seize the breeze, I ride the gale
So light, I’d barely tip a scale
The weight of the world means nothing to me.

The envy of more solid beasts
I dine on seed and berry feasts
I find joy in the least of things
I travel wide with outstretched wings
My cheerful eye is bright and beady
I herald fortune to the needy.
The weight of the world means nothing to me.

My feet were never made to plod
So fleet be I by grace of God
Whose sunlight warms my naked wings
Which soar above the heads of kings
So grounded by their crowns and thrones
Where grave deeds meet with frowns and moans,
The weight of the world means nothing to me.

I bathe in dust and there I’ll rest
When time has stilled my feathered breast
No stone shall mark my passage here
No funeral pyre, no jeweled bier.
Where human souls may hope to soar
I have already gone before
The weight of the world means nothing to me.