The Bird by Patrick Lane

birdcage

The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in your hands
and learn to fly.

Listen again.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.

Only words
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks of the end of cages.

Amethyst Whirlwind

A brief meeting
left me sad
a wistful cloud
following a flurry of activity

She arrived unexpectedly
colorful
purple
vibrant
and chatted rapidly
fidgeting
unable to stand still
not a moment of silence
Her arms moved like a captured bird
fluttering
floundering
feathers ruffled

She had grown beautiful
since our last encounter
I wanted to speak
soundless words
left my lips
stampeded by her staccato speech
trampled

As quickly as she arrived
she disappeared
a rush of good byes
no meeting of the eyes
out the door
an amethyst whirlwind departure

I wanted to laugh
to cry
to retain some of the dynamic energy
but the moment passed
I remained
deflated
the buoyancy of the encounter
drifting away
with the closing of the door