Jul 19, 2007
For mayo
Tonight will be the autumn equinox.
I sit on my porch steps and listen.
I.
The october wind cackles a foreboding
through the wings of a tree sparrow
hopping along the ground in search
of orphaned twigs. As if accidentally
overhearing its thoughts, my skin prickles
with its low whistle: Soon, my phoenix, soon.
I will build a house big enough for both of us,
where we shall sleep cradled
in the scent of rosewood arms.
II.
A shivering maya perches on the rooftop
and watches him through the haze
of summer nights forgotten.
As he gets into his car
I sit beside her and ask:
wasn't it just yesterday
when he burned bright in your eyes?
She doesn't answer me, only flutters
her feathers in cloud-speak—
soft, cirrus whispers trailing
after his tail lights:
Icarus, come back.
III.
He was the man who walked you to your door, the one
who hummed winter breath on your nape, surrounding
you with the crisp scent of trees shedding leaves.
He held you once, the crook of his arm
a bird cage for keeping in what could fly away
at any moment, from stripped branches
the snow never dared to touch.
