For My Little T-Cell Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A fluffy-feathered bird, small,
to some a picture of
great loveliness
and rarest beauty
perched on a twig called hope
precariously above
a vulgar world so far below
ignoring pointing fingers
and their lusty expectations
of faith in true catastrophe
began to sing.

She sang the most exquisite song,
a melody of sweet HELLO,
of hands that long
to touch and hold in warmth
the promise of just being there,
without the fanciful and vain
and, oh so plastic decorations.
The twig soon resonated sounds
and gained in strength,
it would not bend or crack
though its fragility was plain
for all to see.

There was an ancient force
called by the soothing sounds,
it beckoned to the one
whose scruffy, feathered ears
were listening from far away
until all time and distance were,
suspended, once again.

The little twig soon carried two,
as kindred spirits,
birds of so many feathers
and their tears.