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.