Well met by moonlight we, like painted birds
Wing through the winking dark. In the half-light
Of looming streetlamps, and a bond, cast new.
Birds of a feather we, skipping in our
High heeled boots, songs dripping from our ginned tongues.
Fledglings; two young things painting the sky, and
It bends around us. Together we fly.
Since that first blue night of scrabbling through the
Waning light, you’ve been a strong branch, an
Essential part of my wavering nest.
All I have is gratitude, lay it at
Your feet. A hand to hold your spirit up.
My preening blackbird, you will always be
A poem-tongued and twilit queen to me.
