There I sat,
a still, thin form.

Above on a branch,
a chickadee was, and
I asked it,

Do you think it possible that a soul can become so tired that it dies before the body?

The chickadee, so quiet,
cocking head,
but then,
chirped in reply,

My dear, sweet child. Don’t you know?

Souls don’t die.

The chickadee
fluttered down,
set on my shoulder,
whispered into my
ear…

Souls are about loving things. Kindness. Bravery.

And those things never die.

Never ever.