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.
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