Day Eighteen and the Birds

Birds

•

Let the birds come. 

On the gray-eyed mist of May,

with flower’s breath,

through rusting screens of

second story window panes,

facing east and waiting for the sun.

Let the birds come.

To sing the blanket from my shoulders,

and greet the bottom of

my empty morning cup. 

Wanting more, but nothing more than this. 

The place where stories run.  Let the birds come.

•

(for Chele)