For some, poetry comes naturally
But for me its like carpentry

It takes nails, wood, glue, and time
To build these words that hopefully rhyme

In the end I hope these walls survive
So the beauty that lives within will thrive

To grow into ones colorful crest
To inspire fledgling poets building their first nest.

Because he was the robin, see
I built him a birdhouse made of the fingernails I chipped from every time I was forced to button up my own flannel shirt
It was quite silly and awkward-looking
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
It would take a lot of fake smiles and wooden blinds to tolerate a habitation such as the one I constructed for him
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there

When he told me he was making a nest I took a paring knife from the kitchen drawer
When he told me he was making a nest I gave him 10 inches of weave to (through) the twigs
When he told me there were lots of split ends and varied shades
I wasn't too hurt because it was true

And I knew he would use twisty ties from bread bags instead
Which were much more practical than 10 inches of lover's hair
I just couldn't understand why he didn't give it back

He misplaced it, he said
How can you misplace something I had (longed) for him

I  used to be your birdhouse.
I could coax you out from your seat in the treetops
from behind the camouflaging greens
and watch you edge out shyly with the wind ruffling your blush feathers.
You'd cling to me when the spring showers started falling
and I could keep you safe and dry, I could always do that.
I'd be there to hear your youthful songs, and I'd whisper back in a language just we knew
and then I'd hug you goodbye and watch you step precariously from my perch,
flapping in the wind, unsure, unaccustomed.
and  I'd be there for you the next day and the next
because I thought you'd still need me.
I never thought I'd see you, the point of a flying V
soaring with your head held high,
not even glancing down at
my tired wooden walls
and faded empty perch.