POETRY: Not a good sign…

…when I start up with poetry.

What time does this thing start?

She was reading, I remember,

slim fingers slipping through the pages

of a story.  Good one, I suppose; her eyes

flew back and forth like chimney swifts

above the fences crossing

someone else’s life.

Looking up, without a word,

she asked me and I answered,

There’s time yet, but do start thinking

of getting ready.  A half smile in reply, her mind

already taken by the blueness

of the nestled robin eggs,

that only matched the sky.

Jumping with excitement

I waved the flags of warning,

my hands like hummingbirds

arcing in a horseshoe of security.

She shook her head, little quick

emphatic nods of bouncing ringlets,

not now, not now.

I worried only once or maybe

once again, that time has feathers and a tail

and told her.  Her head rolled back with

laughter, like the whippoorwill’s

hypnotic sequence; repetitious,

a credo then, self-serving as belief.

When? she asked me, and I said soon.

Then there’s time, she said,

to snip the zinnias into bright bouquets

to fill the china vases and to pick

the last tomatoes.  What could I say?

Yes, I nodded.  Yes, okay.

What time does this thing start? she asked,

stiff fingers tapping with impatience.

I told her that it already had.

Clouded blue eyes, blinded

by a fiery sun she stared at far too long

yet far too far away to feel its warmth,

stared back at me.

How long ago? she whispered.

A while, I said.

Then, What did I miss? she asked and,

Will it play again?

What could I say?

You can believe that, I answered gently. 

Even as I felt the rush of wings.