i.
At eleven,
God he took my eyes.
And in return,
the Devil he gave me words /
I've secretly spent
three quarters of this life
(my dear):
Trying
(with limited success)
to decipher in fickle human tongue
the sacred,
secret song
of birds.
ii.
And tonight,
here in foreign land,
all I ask is for these
twenty-six scrambled letters
to glide
across deepest waters,
like tiny, fragile boats /
To fly,
to soar
like birdsong's
final twilight rapture,
torn from unseen beak
and tired,
feathered throats.
iii.
Could you learn to trust a man
who cannot see the stars?
And could you learn again to love him
when he merely pretends
to see the constellations
you trace for him
with your fingertips?
And it could be true,
that once they have taken flight,
that he too cannot
see birds.
But together,
you have seen (up close in a tiny boat)
the flamingoes.
And you (both)
now know their secret,
it was always simpler than you think /
Their feathers, when mere feet away
are much more orange
than they were ever pink.
iv.
Last night, in dream
a man from Progresso Beach
he visits me again.
His message,
the same as before:
"The hand that gives is never empty."
I awake with a start /
Yes,
the hand that gives is never empty.
But what can be said...
For a giving heart?
(c) Brent M Harpur, 2014.
