When I was a child birds gave me ideas,
In their flights of rows, towards the lake
Against the autumn sky, my fingernails
Clawing the air rhythmically and my lips
Calling them to infuse whites in my nails.
Those days birds could drop their whites
Directly in the behind of our fingernails.
Actually they were bringing these whites
From the marshes of Siberia in the seas.
A little drop of whites in children’s nails
Would not diminish their whites much
After their return from tropical homes.
Birds gave me ideas, in fluttering wings
And bones with hollow air, silk feathers
That would at times drop in our street
Dancing down our layers of air playfully.
We would catch and save them in books
Afraid to open them for our homework.