In the room the table's heavy legs are folded and tucked. The canary sings in its center. He tells the sun the time, singing to the yellow sash of the eastern curtain. He touches the apple tree drenched with fruit with his ripe song, that's for certain.
"I have no lover but warble true," says Bird, as tree fronds nod wind's rhythm in the dark side of the pond.
"I hold the evening still within," the Pond replies. "The tree's reflection is my eye. The frogs din and the fish cease swim in my shadow water’s song. Come along with me if you dare and see your own reflection cast in prisms care. This beauty is love’s perfection."
Just as morning ends and hits cement with hot, the trees dance away the sky, leaving you and I in dappled light, easing over the roof to night. The fire takes the air in front and sparks it into the crystals slant. Across the room as if in dance, canary sings to lights, like fairies laced with his sweetest vocabulary; forgetting for now the pond out back for in the pond he sees his lack.
Sun dares to dip behind the traces of palm soldiers tall with headdress faces. The clouds now all sweep into place as if a child’s crayon traced the colors of the human spectrum until they mix in genuflection.
In memory of the sunny place this sweet bird had in my life. 8-22-03