There is a lonesome bird, but quietly perched
Feathers adorned with aqua marine, blood red
Little feet grasping an olive branch
And trickles of snow soft on a wing
Moving his head quickly from side to side
He tap-taps on the windowsill
Tucks his head in his chest, ashamed
That no one can quite comprehend
Neither chirp nor twitter can convey the isolation
Migration only intensifying such seclusion, sorrow
It would trade those vivid wings for a lover
A petite golden finch festooned with delicate plumage;
Some confidant sun conure with ornate markings
Another brave aviary soul in this blistering winter
Together, to whistle the blizzards away
It retreats; no use in a bird’s dreaming
A piercing November, a hollowed tree the only shelter
Only nostalgia to fill the gloom and unsettling darkness
It chirps, it twitters but the hollow only returns its call
Where are you, my golden finch? Where do you hide sun conure?
Melted ice it uses to clean its dirty wings
With nothing but a fantasy to lay its head upon.

03/09/2009

Posted on 03/10/2009
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