As birdbrains often do 4/3/15

I went for her jugular, to ring her neck, claiming my vanity if needed. 

My feathery hands soon return weightless. 

She had ignited me. 

I wanted to put words on her. 

I wanted topic, tone, position and judgment, 

to clip her wing tips for her to stay, grounded with my feelings. 

I wanted her feelings near mine 

for what I could not straightforwardly flutter to say. 

I had no simple gestures that did not betray me, eventually, even to myself. 

I made her separate from me to make my point stalwart,  

as a standalone now facing me. 

There was no one there to hold it up to me as if it was heard as out of me. 

What I had was fidgets and fitful.

Inner homing pigeons of my own with no sky or destination

in need of caging as their excuse. 

A cooing persisted as she offered me cage-less contentment. 

I was at a loss to wing gestures I couldn’t make. 

I had limbs to meet her breeze,

but her sky was empty and free from reaction. 

I had wanted to be with talons, keen eyes and a broad wingspan, 

not registered, recreational and stout-bodied. 

All these images came back to me as my feelings were made of caricatures

that I placed before her. 

She had rights to read them as cartoonesque. 

I could easily be embarrassed with that. 

But no, she breathed light into my clay pigeon menagerie. 

She was clarity and aliveness to my brooding. 

She brought body heat to my nested feelings. 

And I thought, as birdbrains often do, 

that I had a mind of my own . . .