She picks flowers from the air
with delicate fingertip grasps
and transforms them
to random words, spoken
in the same gentle spirit
by which she plucks
from the space
between us.

In whispers
the words rise
to where she found them.

Then I float
full of wonder and dread
through the doorway,
past the nurses’ station,
down bland corridors,
out into night air
and the mudpuddle splash
of voices in recent rain.

I enter other rooms,
into an intense,
boisterous, rapier
flood of syllables
which washes me
into the street

where I pick flowers
from the air
with trembling hands,
receive a communion
melt on the tongue
of words
drifting far
from this world.

Poem for dVerse Poets Open Link Night.


16 thoughts on “Bird

  1. magic….wrapped around a bit of sadness as well…i lov ehte plucking flowers fromt eh air to turn into words…perhaps something you learned from her eh? smiles. the mud puddle splash of voices is a cool phrase too matt…

  2. This is like a living thing, Matt–complex, beautiful in its purpose, breathing, or a lovingly woven tapestry of something too important to be forgotten. The circling of beginning to end is subtle and strong, and the flowers are there, just waiting to be picked.

  3. plucking meaning from the space between us…love the images…also the transforming flowers to words.. and you doing the same after seeing her doing it…i like

  4. …plucks meaning from the space between us… ah, i liked that…. the tender quality of this poem hightens the fragility of such love & brokeness… excellent transitions & twist of moods here… smiles…

  5. Gorgeous poem. Love the photo, too. Thanks much for the comment on my blog. You’ve had a couple of replies. A lot of us relate. Take care of your muse.

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