Birder

I walk in your tropical forest of colors

and scents and birds flying in circles around me

that I want to reach out and grasp;

but instead I find another tale to weave

I offer this shoulder [my head turns to the right]

and then this shoulder [to the left now]

that you in all your forms may alight there

while I, staring straight ahead,

will listen to the breezes in your soft feathers,

the murmured natterings between your many selves

--perhaps there will be a gentle nip at my glowing earlobe.

I want to gaze longingly at you—

but I’m unable to

because the flock of you won’t sit still,

flying off again each time I think that I can single out

which dizzying circle is yours.

I want to reach out.

I want to grasp.

But how do you grasp a flight pattern?—except to ask it to land and

come sit here beside me.