She stands

gazing out her kitchen window

with that expression

that says too much.

Her eyes betray

the meeting place of

her head and her gut.

It pulls at the need for space

with the space for need –

a balance long lost to her.

* * *

From the kitchen window

she sees her, a robin, full-throated

and proud.

Her song is persistent, ragged

and rough around the edges,

but sure, notes as they were meant to be:

bloated with joy,

brushed with pain,

saturated in the sound

of summer winds

unconcerned with propriety.

No careless, garish squawks

from this dear throat – only love.

* * *

Revealed in the ruffled folds

of her dress, a life,

though less ruffled,

still cries out for ironing.

Uneven pleats and

mismatched colors bleed into

unsecured hems.

* * *

Still, as she waits

and stares at nothing,

it says everything.

And at the place where a robin’s song

threads itself like a needle

along the coastline of uncomfortable garments

there is in her a missing reconnaissance –

like the bird feeder lacking birds.

* * *

This messy business

of life’s lovely entrapments:

friendships in the guise of interrupted

moments too bright for sunny afternoons

meant for more eyes,

the song of birds

meant for more ears

than hers.