Poetry, Quill

The Weaver

Amidst the rain
Amidst the thunder
There was a tiny weaver
Seeking to build itself a nest
Typical yet stood out the rest.
The tree swirled a million times
The twigs kept falling off the climb
Still determined.
That bird endured the bitter clime
It tried and tried until the nest held shape
And not for once did the bird even attempted an escape
What startled me the most was not the nest
It was average looking yet better than the rest
What startled me the most was the bird.
Its persistence its trivial and its pluck
And if that tiny weaver could brook such a hefty trap
What has made us handicapped?

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