The mud that makes a man
molds women into birds,
although we know avians
come from dinosaurs and
humans from a heavenly
jubilation of glad apples.
The spotted dove between
the flowerbed and a melody line
bobs on the grass and scans
in peace for pearl millet.
Its ruby heels don’t bruise
a single blade of grass;
sunburst dragonflies glimpse
the spring she wears on her wings
like incidental violas, babies,
bees and lyrical cuticles.
She notices, or senses some
of this – the scent and more…
snakes are gone, turtles died,
kingfishers have flown away –
dust is rife with invocations
that the flesh poorly dreams;
rooms are locked, beds are made,
a white curtain lifts in a light breeze
behind the impatience of tendrils
vaguely pronged like green laws.
If only she could speak! That dove.
Would she then bob on
with a sidelong glance
and say, “Of all the shades
prewritten in this noon
I choose your home and prune
the flailing hours to decide
in which books you confide –
a fellow rambler who’d distil
a fate from retrograde freewill
and learn how god of time inheres
in sequences of telomeres.
There may be more beyond my clue
to sound a thing past coo-coo-croo.
Stir the sugar gently in your tea.
Stir gently, sweet, don’t startle me.”