Two Birds

I recall the whisper cascading off your tongue,
a water droplet on a lily's petal
when the sun's crimson paints our forest
and its fog retreats into the Earth.
Aye, Eden's serpent left naught space
between the angels and sin for your soul;
warlike lust shimmers modestly through you.
Might it crash, ignite, haunt me indefinite,
cruelly fair to my bruised serendipity
through half-lit eyes of limitless mercy
reborn from Venus's sea-foam lagoon.
To speak those phrases —
a robin's chirp lost in morning traffic,
a swallow's feather found under tangled oak
made to serve a child's sacred headband;
nests caught far between here and there.
If I am the hummingbird which graces paintings,
might you be the flowery framed composition
tethering my spirit to hearth and home?
No flight without branches to perch, no dew
without morning rain, nothing whispered
if not for our budding birdsong.
In the words sprawled across your lilies,
motifs of speech engraved in leaves,
the nectar transferred through our kiss —
I have found the answer.

May. 18, 2023