At the Bay Window
The canted bay window arches shut – shutters left undrawn –
And molting quills pantomime wordless syllables
Splayed across reaching panels.
Body intimations dawdle as the
Padding and pillows below recount the muscle memory
And remember the sunbathed books read by he, stretching prone.
Sealing out water, wind, dust for light in the alcove,
Nonporous glass filters out impurities of her love
Straining out its purest form by sweat of her undaunted wings.
Shy, small bird cants and hovers in the prow of arches shut,
Wings ever at brandishing row, slave to shape of infinity,
Trembling in ruby-throated scales, maybe in need of calibration.
Thrumming wordless syllables, throbbing in silence,
Thrashing noiselessly behind soundproof barrier,
At first glance, for the pottery bunching table cloth into crease,
But not for illusions of flowers to be tied as corsage in wedding vase does she persist
Forever is not for man and a small bird, proportioned pygmy by comparison, though
Endowed iridescently in glow of mottled breast and bewitching color mist,
She’s breaking at the pane, oh but for the sweet of his lips!
Having known the piercing of stem spurs, of kissing petals rejecting pleas for betrothal,
His painted eyes, offering an enchanting proposal, in pointillist motes of glinted debris,
Swept her by daydream, behind the window, and detached her from dusty honeysuckle leaves.
Yet the canted bay window arches shut – shutters to be drawn –
And her quills are molting, and he sits there yawning
While her wings span the panels, fawning and fanning.
But not for nectar from the vase, but for another savoring of
What tastes like love in his face, does she hover there.
But will ever his lips care a tender kiss to share?
© 2014. Asha Gowan. All Rights Reserved.