In yesterdays of peppermint
and temps perdu, you lived with me in
the longhouse, grasshopper thin from fiddling,
a silversmith of backspin. You carved me
a primitive bluebird
put it rounded in my hand
sitting drawn down
on its toes, fledge-etched in cerulean
soap-smooth, autumn-colored circles
at its too-wise eyes.
You smiled when it stirred,
a stopsignal tailfeather,
gaped its open throat
for a worm-friend mother.
I set it among the other birds;
no thing of mine, your gift
but wild its own.
Oracle crows, inquisitor cardinals,
insipid chickens pecked it--
but the bluebird rose in
not to me,
not to you.
posted for real toads
(I have used some from the lists and made up others.)
temps perdu: Fr. for wasted time, lost time
Image: L'oiseau bleu, 1968, Marc Chagall, via wikiart.org