scratches at the jeweled movement
of the day, as summer weeds bend slightly,
then stand at ease, and leaves rustle
like golden sleeves of wild Burmese silk.
A lone birdsong, slow, melodic, metronomic,
carries with it the story of us, the
inner workings of our place in this time,
our crescendo, decrescendo, the rise, the
fall, each breath, distinct and forgotten.
You move me, in ways I am not prepared
to move, in ways I am afraid to go, yet
I grow the way an oak grows, and shed
skin like leaves to welcome your
feathered touch among my boughs.