Baby Bird

There is seldom a moment in a baby bird’s life 

When it questions its ability to fly.  

But for one, self-doubt twists like a knife,

Preventing me from ever touching the sky. 

All others cannot see the weakness in their wings,

yet I can’t see anything but.   

The songs, they all sing,

with confidence they ring,

yet my certainty shall always remain shut.

The possibility our wings will carry us,

seems not in a probable realm. 

Yet seemingly, without any fuss, 

My brothers and sisters are not overwhelmed.

As the last baby bird to jump, 

I leap with eyes closed, certain we will all hear the thump.

Out of the cloud cuddled nest I fall, 

my instinct to first curl up and bawl.  

Yet as the wind pushes against my wings,

To hope is what I cling, 

Soaring, rising, flying.

I am surprised to hear my own strong voice sing.

The melodies I so mistrusted before,

burst out of me in a resounding uproar.

The wings I so carelessly denounced,

ascend me high above cotton ball clouds. 

For the ability to fly lain in my heart,

inhabited my baby bird build 

from the very start.