Lately I’ve Been Talking Too Much

L.M. Cole

about birds and French painters
as if the words I’m searching for
will be found in the biography of
Georges Braque or in the taxonomy
of Sturnella neglecta.

I once called you a cardinal
when you are a transplanted wren
hidden amongst other plumage
and painted in stunning light;
a brilliant study of les Fauves.

I have not settled, or if I have
it is as snow settling to the branch
of a favored riparian pine.
Instead, I have chosen to alight;
S. neglecta in a strange biome. 

I, an object, shattered into fragments,
am searching for the phrase
that nobody would understand
but you, who have listened with patience
to myself in fractals of light and perspective. 

It may suffice to say only
that a wren and a meadowlark
may live quite joyfully; the lark
concealed, overlooked on the ground
and the wren calling, “Sweetheart, come to me.”