like everyone, i have my regrets.
chief among them today
is this:
that in my haste to give you wings
and set you flying
i did not pause
to proffer feathers for your caps;
did not perch beside you
did not tell you each by one
that new birds sing in my old heart
when i hear your own birds
singing out from yours.
funny, wild, sad and cynical,childish and tombstone-eyed birds;
birds of regret, confusion,
anticipation, dread;
birds that transmit love unwillingly
as the tree channels the lightning bolt
that splits it through the center.
birds that accept love unconsciously
as the wing accepts the air that keeps us
flying, breathing, bursting now and then
into flames.
if you leave here thinking
that i do not love you
for your stubborn lightning bolts
and easy air;
if you leave here not believing i
am honored by your company each day,
then i have failed. twice:
once in the teaching of
why and how to write;
once again in the writing of this poem.
this will not be the feather
that gives you the power of flight.
it is too small, too soft around the edges.
but tuck it away:
maybe some cold day you will find it,
deep in the pocket of a coat.
then you will recall this room, this game
we used to play with words.
and if you do not know it yet,
you will know it then:
the you in this poem is really you,
and i am glad to have met you.
thank you for letting your bird sing.
