sign language

My hand, a birdcage.

Inside, a wren.

I let her craft all of my best poetry.

(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)

That first part is not true.

My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.

She likes it there.

But it means I can never open my hand.

Not once.