Bird Of Art

Bird Of Art

They are worth falling down for

and used to make me tremble,

I see them through owl eyes wide

sitting in the pages of a strangers book.

Familiar to me;

hanging from the moon

by a rope,

hearing that laugh again,

the Cheshire grinning a Sunbeam 

rampant and righteous

sterling a sing-song.

A bird of art gifted,

a starling in another poets sky,

I retrace my steps unblinking

swept away in memories 

of a past life,

and the possibility 

of being in their circle again.

Perhaps I should bring them an iris,

a viscaria, or a spider-flower.

Ah, to spread my wings in the night,

drink the cold air and leap 

to the next branch.

Hoping this one wont break.