If there were a list of rules for who can visit,
A book of names to let some enter into
Communion on the ledge
By virtue of his title
He’d be turned away.
But when it’s quiet
And thought has pulled me deep,
Where worry debates with faith and reason
Pulling piece by ragged piece,
In the dusty corners where the deep grooved tracks from a childhood
He comes alone, staring deep within my soul
Feathers meet a feeble friend.
I’ve begun to wait for him.
He sings a shrill of flats or is it sharps.
Tilts his head
I don’t know which, or what he says.
Peers through glass at me then folds a caring nod
As if the feathered feeder friend
Sings his song for me.
There is no space for other songbirds when he comes.
His birdsong gurgles, sucks up all the space and time
With a melody of winsome caring,
checking through the pane.
Ebony and streaks of red ask
“Have you found at last your peace on matters on your mind.”