again birds

those were our
hot-and-heavy days
you said to my
thousand-mile-
away smile

neither of us
being particularly
either        really

more our gingerly
days          our torn-
hunks-of-bread days
swapped back and fro
like intimate stories
of lovers
after hours apart

what is love
if not feeding
another       sharing
your crusts
with a pigeon?

or feeding
the little bird
who fell from her nest
with open palm

tentatively
the bird with the broken
wing       expecting

to fly

Advertisements

About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s