By Emalisa Rose
Now that they’re empty
I can see all your hiding spots
here, where the branch is bare
where once I’d been mystified, as
the moon brought the sun around
and I’d wait for your morning song
on the tree where the blues were born.
And I’ve come to hypothesize
though it may be just wishful thought,
that perhaps from the perch
which was hidden from view
perhaps you’d been watching me too
bird of blue.
