An Aviary of Small Birds
My love is an aviary of small birds and I must learn to leave the door ajar…
Are you the sparrow who landed when I sat at a slate table sowing lettuces?
Webbs Wonder, Lollo Rosso, English Cos… Swift and deft you flit and peck peck quick as the light that constitutes your spirit. Yes, you were briefer than Neruda’s octobrine.
So much rain that night. Our room is an ocean where swallows dive. The bubble bursts too soon, too late, too long: all sorts of microscopia swim upstream, float in on summer’s storm.
The tenor of your heart is true as a tuning fork struck —and high! My love is the bird who flies free.