I let the pigeon go.
It wept in my hand and ringed
its neck, left and right.
Against a brick wall, I was shattered
from listening to the coo
that never left.
Regulate my temerity,
but lust for the bastions,
where roses and a deep sigh wait.
Beekeeping myself against waxed rows
and granular helpings
of pine-scented lips.
Retire this feeling
beneath the decking
boards and the sunlight relish,
that lift my shoulders
beyond where I knew they could be.
Shanks and beatitude for the trees
and precious time,
with patience and our breathing
chests. For the moment, light
crosses our path,
blazes at our feet
and makes a treasure
of nature’s detritus. Modest reasons
for reaching the hours,
the wrists with thumb and forefinger,
making a livelihood of absent tone
and enriched grace.