Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Daily visitor

He comes and
sits on that
little nervous tree
with no roots.

Last summer
the tree would bear
fragile pink
paper flowers.
now it seems bored.

He has little
humourous wings that dance
as he croons
deep and adamant.

The firing hearth next door
wafts up an endearing smoke,
from a distant memory
of a personal place.

His uncertain neck
pulsates to the beat
of the hapless city
around it,
Twisting and turning
like a restless baby's wrist.

The fresh henna on her hand
smells a deep orange,
finds voice in him,
strikes roots in the tree.

In an anchored hour of
sunseived shade
the tree shivers
in the warm
afternoon breeze. 

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