golden birds fly

With wings alit by sunset,

Nearly golden, nearly bright,

The little white bird flies

With wings alit by sunset,

He soars and dips

And arches his back

To fold in,

Encasing the wind

There in his breast.

And there is where

The little white bird flies.

Soaring through the golden skies,

Eyes gleaming, wind light

Clouds emanating some

Far more heavenly light

Then perhaps my eyes can

See,

For where the little white bird flies,

I cannot reach

But for in dreams, and

Memory

The place where the little white bird flies,

Forever in my envisioned

Memory