The Visitor

All summer long the feeder hung— its visitors a timid lot. I listened to their calling, sung through languid days, sultry and hot. And then I left a little trail, each day more seed, closer to me. I did not know if I'd prevail, or if my hands would ever be a place of trust, a soft embrace— if you would pause a moment there to share with me a breath of grace, a fleeting joy, a wordless prayer. Today I sat so still and calm... your feathered heartbeat in my palm.