What do you want from me?
I'm a shadow,
the sound of wings
dipping and turning mostly
imperceptable between you and
the robin's egg blue sky
the space in between, the
place the mockingbird inhabits
I'm the click of the beak of the golden finch
the wildbird food you left for her, there
in that feeder-that-calls them
not because it looks like a
human home, but because
it smells like home
to one who is not like you
Like me, a streak of red
separate from the rest of the soot
What do you want from me?
= = = =
As soon as I finished posting this poem from the visual prompt you see here from Tess Kincaid at The Mag, I started with a second draft in my head. Funny how that happens. I am going to allow it to simmer a bit and see what flavors choose to burst forth or not.
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