A Black Headed Oriole



My inner child

is clad in sunshine

and wants me

to put it on.

But I can’t wear a mask.

What would you do then?

Dig a burrow and hide there

dreaming raptors extinct?

My monsoon heart

brews thick dark clouds.

The stubborn child with its wand

makes a black headed oriole

out of that inky billowing mass.

I look up and see

the warbler

pecking its golden plumes

on a Neem tree.

Isn’t she a sweet note,

a Hymn itself?

Is the tree still scrawny

with the winter hangover?

Thin, slender neem leaves dance

in the breeze, I see.

It’s not breeze; His breath;

each leaf rises in joy with The Touch,

whispers the child.

As she hunkers down

I begin to relent.

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Compromise @ Poets United