He wants to tell someone

He wants to tell someone. Instead, he’s distracted

by yellow weaverbirds delighting him in his front yard

singing sweet, soothing songs. A speck falls on

a page of a book in hand. He notices not

which world he gets lost in—shifting between a timeless

one to another—wistful and alone. He catches the detail

of a falling leaf, wafting, weightless; the sway of the breeze,

rustling, whistling; the yellow of the sun, shining, reflecting.

He feels odd. Perhaps it’s a character on the page,

or a twist in the plot—maybe in his life too. A swelling feeling,

a stirring within, and goose bumps on skin: such

is the beauty he sees, of a weaverbird nibbling at bread, and

of deep green grass, suggesting a depth—he imagines

of his feeling. A sigh. He sees more than he would like—

a disquiet in the quiet, an unsettling simplicity, a flashback

and a longing for a life past: a reassuring comfort,

a knowing, now taken away;

a large presence, a has been and an always will be,

a father, but now not here.

Picture Credit: Down a dusty lane