For My Little T-Cell

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.