Watercolor

We came upon the waters, in themselves,
That ran deep, under rain drops on rocks
Their music falling softly on the morning
As birds ran counter to embedded trees.

It was the music of the bodies from a mind.
The leaves fell gently from rain and clouds,
Their textures collected most of the ecstacy
From a sound of meaning, their sensations
On the skin perking up as if to a first rain .

The textures of the rocks broke their skies.
The hues in them wavered as cotton- white
Corrugations ,with birds caught in the folds
Like tiny v’s from God’s free hand drawings .
Rocks merged in the sky and water flowed
Like the music of the birds caught in clouds
That were birds not yet caught in the trees.

Bird drama

The chick is a ball of flesh ,from a proud mama’s love,
In the wind of the wire , a home away from some trees.
The birds are mama and lover ,accountable to the chick
On the A.C. unit where they had brought it into being.

Chick waits throbbing in a plastic shovel ,dropped there
Into a new space of gravity, but a shovel is not a home
Home is up there where bird chick is franchised citizen.
A dropped chick is a throbbing mass of no flying wings.

A sweeping maid has her duty toward homeless chicks.
No wings , no fly but to die ? Maid drops the chick high.
O conscience beating in my bird, guilt at not doing thing.
A heart beating like a wingless chick in a cage of bones.

Why no cooing ,only high and flighty shrieks ,wing-fights
Above the A.C. unit , why this drama of feather-flapping
Finally why this silky silence in balcony’s higher reaches.
Here fingers fly on keyboard but soon doubts take wings
If the fucking mom has taken it in or has chick left its bird.
But I am not thy birds’ keeper, fingers say, keeper of own.

Detritus

A lot has come out of the detritus
A morning wet with the night’s rain
Birds pecking at a sky for more rain.
Like on the next day of lights festival
The kids look for unlighted crackers
It is   fun to set them off one by one
Near many windows ,to scare ghosts
Sleeping under their winter blankets.

 
Birds are kids looking for some fun.
They forget the loss of the loved ones
That went last year not to come back,
The detritus of last year’s warm nest
Feathers strewn around on a cat’s visit
Screaming ghosts from warm stomach.
They forgive the cat and the detritus.
They forgive the unyielding July sky.
Their beaks  peck at the sky for  rain.

The lost house

A lost  house talks quietly to the lake
In a tender  morning light of its birds
Birds that are in no hurry for shadows
Of a camera not opening quite to trees
But  its shadows tail  buildings fallen
Headlong into a morning lake of gold

The lake laps up against a parapet wall
Of nobody  leaning against it for  view.
Absences are ghosts with no prior bodies
Absences that could have turned men
If  the house had stood erect to the lake
The lake for company on moonlit nights
With a  moon falling across the parapet
To the ripples of a soft  wind in the lake

The lake’s trees make a luminous frame
To the shadows of birds, the buildings
Fallen into its  shimmer,  a  moonlight
Of the previous night still  cherished
By the lost house as a tender memory
Of leaves fallen to the moon of the lake,
Not its absences near the parapet wall.