Greenfinch

You always knew how to fly
when to land, the right time to move on
You came preset, breaking the impossible spaces
on a map of greens and yellows
and would arrive, even though there appeared no reason
except that the garden was peeling colour
or frosts had stilled the trees of sound.
 

But your end was a humiliation
a window strike, stunned by a dead future of yourself
mid-flight, into a garden reflection
the very glass through which I watched you
and I was left a witness as you turned life away,
and I feathered you with my fingers
your weakened pulse as much my own. 
 

Why am I hesitating again
hovering my hands above you
unable to erase your ghost,
which continues to invert my loss?