Ruth reflected

that we are flowers;

as time passes

we bud, we bloom

only to contract

and bud then bloom

once more –

I feel so grabbed

by big dusty hands

that clench, yank

when I am fatigued,

yearning for response:

a cushion beneath

my head,

a break in the

heat,

words whispered

softly.

*

A blackbird

flew into my

window this morning;

 distracted,

misinterpreting

my sterile light

for hers: a

false promise

or maybe she is

just so tired.

She huddled under

a tree, sheltered by

thin foliage

and waited, paused,

shuddering

camouflaged by

compassionate shrubby green.

I pressed my palms together

And through the glass

I wished, I whispered:

‘I love you’

‘I love you’

‘I love you’.

In my mind’s eye

scooping up

her feathered body,

tending to her,

calming her,

before releasing her

to the moon and clouds.