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The Little Birds

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There is a small, clean incision,

Of a circle right above my heart.

And sometimes when I’m drifting in and out of dreams,

Day or night,

Passion drips from it.

Little fluttery birds come,

And collect the magic elixir.

They say grace,

Then scramble out of my window,

To preserve the succulent nectar.

Branches of trees sway in anticipation,

And the sun peeks over

To see what the fuss is about.

The winged creatures stretch their wings

With hope of a new day.

My passion is stored in little bottles,

Hidden in the shadow-filled spaces of their trees.

And every night the birds come back,

To say hello.

I share with them a little part of me,

To keep and treasure,

Since no one else seems to understand,
As well as they do.





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