I have a friend who interprets happenings.
A leaky faucet, a dead lawn, a fire
can cause a search
for depth analysis of meaning.
Makes me wonder
nightly, two little birds cuddle on my courtyard lamp.
Their eyes beaming trust, innocence,
magnetizing my heart.
Aren't they supposed to flee?
Or do they know
How did another bird get into my kitchen?
Flying from place to place
to forgo his freedom,
explore human play.
I forced him sadly to fly away.
Why did law enforcers become early birds
trying to catch green worms,
by mailing me next year's calendar
replete with pictures of feathered rainbows that chirp?
Would my friend strive to find
what birds symbolize in my life,
or would she think, like me,
that mystery can be spice,
just a slice of something nice.
(Sorry I haven't been around again. I've been moving back to my old house. It's nice being back home. Maybe the birds are just welcoming me.)
(Submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United.)