Young Cardinal

In the muggy heat of early Fall, I lounged,

alone and weak, on a brown wooden bench;

Day surrendered to dusk, and mutely I gazed across

the grass, the trees, and wrinkled violet sky.

A pale young cardinal flew to my feeder,

its soft brown tufts lending a tender life to both

my thoughts and the humid air they slept inside.

Not sure I deserved her here, I kept so still

and distant, not wanting the bird to fly away -

not calling - taking cautious steps through grass.

But was I careful for her sake or for mine?

Perhaps they were as selfish and cowardly

as my dozing - fearful to move, or change too fast?

In meek flutters, the cardinal left, I creeping, yet still,

to the swishing feeder in the air now empty

of the sun's last rays. I knew too late that she

did not want silence, but life and holding warm -

crisp chirps and arm waving and kisses steady and long.

Returning in the black, I take up my bench,

my glass, my quiet and thinking, alone once more.

In the heat, my frail arms shiver constantly.