Mid forest lived this man, to him surounded, spires of grey
Breathed, in, breathed out, from dawn’s hello to the setting sun
the of day,
He didn’t care for sight, there was nothing to see,
Nor did he hear, no joy to be heard,
No dreams, none, at day or under blanket of night,
Never ventured, lived on air, through a missing pane
and crack in bolted door,

One midnight, so bright!
Arrived in a blink, birds of a kind, as fast as wind caught in a gale,
A swirl, six, seven then eight,
Magical and fantastic, translucent as mist at first light,
Flying far and high, these spirit birds that seek,
Each brought something, each in a beak,

One a key, to open man’s mind to play,
Another, a crystal from the depths, to show wonder he’s yet to see,
Another carried a map, so much beyond his bed of hay,
The fourth, a bell, to call a lady, to dine,
One brought a mirrored ball, countless moons, under to dance,
where they’d fall in love,
Another found a magnified glass, inviting him to see the universe
in the eye of a dove,
And the seventh, a clock, so never again a wasted day,

“Thank you” he spoke, the first in a long time,
“Can you bring me wine?”

As the eighth sat, sang, and laid an egg.