Pure white,
the bird that once fluttered,
sang,
flew
with you. 
Wherever you were,
there was she
following your tiny footsteps in the grass.
But you’re getting to the hard part now.
The grass browns, the bird-less winter 
quiets, the shadows swallow you 
whole. 
You’re getting to the hard part now.
Mind over matter can’t save you
from the spoonful of cinnamon falling
down your throat, begging you
to be young again,
to fly free again,
to be pure white again.
You’re getting to the hard part now.
Pure white has pitch black smudges,
scrapes leftover from her migration. 
Her throat is scratched and rusty 
with no song she wants to sing, 
no song left to sing.
Her wings are cracked and weak,
tucked behind her head 
never to be seen again, 
never to follow you through the grass.