Little Bird

In those, oh...so unsexy, mauve
Wellingtons, with pink polka-dots,
you fall to your knees... hair cascading
down your shoulders...loose tendrils
teasing the ground.

Cupped in your hand – a fledgling
fallen from the nest; frightened eyes
gazing up at yours, and I’d give anything
to be that sparrow, nestled in your palms.

There came down a soft rain, and a scent
of the soil wafted through the window –
the mirabelle tree in whimsical white
and you lowered your head.

I am that silent prayer you proffered
that one day you might choose to love me –
even half as much, as you willed
that little bird to live, to fly...to ride
the orange bow of this earth.