Poetry, for me, has always been a bird,
Not like the one that stays outside the window every morning,
Not like the one that sits in a cage at the side of the room,
Not like the one that swarms you when there is food in your reach,
No, not like any of those.
It's a bird that only comes around during the rainy season.
Before the rain starts it sits silently on a branch just out of sight,
I can hear it, I know it's there, but it does not draw my eye.
But when the rain falls hard with no end it sight,
It uses my windowsill for cover,
Allowing me to gaze on its full vibrant beauty.
I watch the feathers as the softly flutter in the wind,
I watch it huddle in the corner of the window sleeping,
I watch as it paces from one side of the window to the other,
I forget the rainstorm outside.