The Bird and Her Bench

A little bird


On the iron armrest

Of a bench

Just outside

The library.


It was a funny bird,

For I saw it daily

As I went to write,

But not once

Had I observed

A fat worm in her beak,

Not even a movement,

A stretch,

Or a song.


So I devised a little plan

To watch the bird,

All the day long,

To wait

For a sign of life.


My bag that next morning

Was filled with cheese

And crackers and tea

That Mother had packed,

And of course,

A plethora of journals

And books.

Virginia Woolf


And Bic

Would keep me going

For a while.


At roughly 8:05am

I planted myself

On a step


From the bird and her bench.


With my nose in a book,

I glanced up

Each moment

To see if she

Had moved.


Businessmen, students,

And mothers toting children

Toddled in

And out

Of the library.


Hours passed.


My cheese was gone, my tea

Half empty—

But still she did not move.


I stared at her,

My imagination running wild

As defense against the monotony.

I stared and I stared

And I read

And I stared.

But still she did not move.


My back began to ache,

My imagination was brimming over,

And my eyes were sore from the sun.



I picked up my things,

And moved over


The bird and her bench.


I sat on the bench

And eased

My back,

Gently onto its wood,

But still she did not move.


So growing impatient

I untied my journal

Picked up my pen

And filled up the pages.


I was so inspired,

After hours of devising,

And I flung poem

After poem

Onto the paper.


And then,

Not suddenly,

But with a


Floating ease,

She cocked her head

And stepped

Slowly towards me.


I watched her talons

Coming my way

Until she was right there,

Beside me,

Looking into my eyes.


An ethereal stare

Was held between us

And I felt a slight warmth

Captivate my mind.


It was so strange,

What was happening.

This bird, so unlike

Any living creature,

Who never ate

Who never moved

From her bench

Was now watching me

In an immaculate fashion.


Figuring the bird

Would not

Leave the bench

Any time soon,

I turned back to my journal

And wrote

Some more.


With each word

I put down,

The creativity

The inspiration

That had fueled me


Moments before

Dissipated into

The warmth

And I was,

In the most literal sense,

At a loss

For words.


I shut the journal

And realized

That the warmth

I had felt

Was much stronger

Than before—

Some sort of gentle energy

Embraced my mind

And my soul


My imagination.


And this warmth,

Visible in just the faintest way,

Flowed from me

And into she.


She now glowed

With a fullness

Of life.


As my mind was emptied

Her frame was strengthened.

The glorious blue

Of her feathers

Deepened and spread

And she ruffled them

And stretched out the wings

Of her




I sat there

Thinking nothing

(But in the most glorious sense!)

And I watched

And watched


As the warmth left me,

The transaction complete,

She rose elegantly

To the air

And flew

Far away.


I was now

Left alone

Just me and

The bench

And though sapped of


I managed


To come up with a plan

For my

Next poem


I would title

“The Bird and Her Bench”



— a poem by T. Lareveur


Image Credit: Michele Avanti

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2 Responses to The Bird and Her Bench

  1. What a lovely poem! Thank you so much for sharing. I love it! 🙂


  2. Thank you so much! I am always grateful for feedback and it is wonderful to know that at least one person in the world gains something from what I write.

    Liked by 1 person

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