if i had kept his words unread until after the teasing of the moonlight as the first golden rays stir... then awake and the frrt-frrt sound of the sugarbirds spread
then his voice would have sounded one more time
if i had clipped its flier feathers assured it could not escape before dawn if only i had caged the message of his pen it would have stayed captive... and only then the words said would have remained unsaid
but i could not wait to set his last words free until the cycle of the seasons change the colours of sunsets rearrange or until the sugarbirds migrate
Don't you sometimes wish you had not opened that message...
A re-post of an old write. Ainsley's poem 'Inks on the note' reminded me of its existence.