When the birds were sleeping

I thought I heard you crying when the birds were sleeping last;
 the birds who's mournful songs woke us today and mornings past.
Those flighted creatures, hanging between heaven, perched on beams,
with lightest wings, so frail, have seen a world beyond our dreams.
It sure must break their hearts to touch the perfect, drop back down,
and that, my dear, is why bird song weeps sweetly all around.
Yet we don't perceive it, won't receive it's message. We
are sure that it would break us too.  Instead, we chop down trees.
Instead, we say, "that's lovely, what a cheery little guy!
I wish that I could be a bird!  I wish that I could fly!"
But you, my love, with cheeks so wet, cry gentle in your sleep.
 You too have seen a perfect thing you didn't get to keep.
So I will try to catch each tear fast dripping down your face.
I'll hold you through the darkest nights. Together, we can face
the sunrise, and the sunsets, and the daytime in between.
I'll always listen to your songs, and know just what they mean.