you are the bird in my hand
our friendship is living and fragile
I can feel its heart beat fast on the vein in my palm

you are worth two in the bush
we are not entwined like undergrowth
two is the number of unattainable birds and lovers

nothing makes a bird sing like flying
nothing makes me write like falling in love

flaws for me, flaws for you
a bird in the hand cannot fly
you do not even like poetry

too long have I strayed
like a ship at sea,
cast gently upon shore
after shore
yet never finding the solace,
the peace that I yearn for.
at last my trembling fingers take
ink, and spirit
and let them run unbridled
weaving words into a haven,
walls with paned-glass windows
to let the light inside.
the heavens sigh, relieved
they will not be troubled tonight
by my earnest conversation
with the unknown.
I have captured it and pinned it
upon this paper
with an alchemist’s delight -