Thursday Verse No. 4: Unfeather Yourself

What is love? Ah, the age-old question.

It’s difficult to define. Not because love is abstract, but because its definitions are ever-shifting. Love means different things to different people, at different times in their lives. This poem was born from my own reflections on that question.

It comes from moments when I choose to set my guards aside, and experience the wholeness of love. It comes from those moments when love meant softness, patience, undemanding presence, and an ever-giving kind. It comes from a place of offering — of holding, without needing to hold on.

Then, the moments passed. I returned to the definition I have always held: that love, no matter how generous, cannot exist without the self. And each time, I came back steadier, clearer, and more certain of what it means to give without diminishing.

So, as I offer this poem, may it find its meaning in you. And may you find your current definition of love — whatever that may be — within it. Because no matter how it evolves, love, in all its forms, always remains love.

Unfeather Yourself

Let me be your nest,

the warmth you return to after your sunshine disappears into the West,

Let my twigs — your carefully chosen twigs — ease your coldness,

Come dear bulbul, preen your weariness!

Chirp me stories 

of faraway lands, I’ll never be able to see beyond this banyan tree,

Let my stillness hush the dread of escaping traps and arrows,

Coo dear bulbul, warble your sorrows! 

Hug into my arms, 

as thundering sky brews up into a monstrous rain storm,

Let my rustles sync with your birdy heart beats,

Sleep dear bulbul, dream without fear!

Peck your morning goodbye

and fly as far as your eyes can see, without turning back to me,

If you find a home elsewhere, I’ll hear it from the breeze 

Fly dear bulbul, live as you please!

I won’t feel empty

when you do not return, I’ll not be waiting for your sweet melody,

I’ll rather help a dancing butterfly guide a wandering snail,

Go dear bulbul, I’ll own my tales!

But when your homing instinct rings

and you choose to return to the tree, 

Let me be your nest,

Come dear bulbul, come to me!

- Mercy Rebonica