When I stare at your red back,
and your little legs which move,
at your dots, so black, and black,
and your wings, whispering their tune,
I marvel at the master’s touch,
and reflect on my high school,
when I sat in class, just after lunch,
and heard science teachers rue,
that we cannot dream in color,
but I say, we can and do –
for there never was a color,
as beautiful as you.
Sometimes the world seems as a page,
I am the left, and You, the right,
Each time I hold my pen I pray,
to fill good words out to Your side.
But though I strive to write long lines,
I cannot pass the sheet’s midway,
For poetry has its own design –
No matter what I have to say.
But if some hand could take the words -
And change them a bit on the line -
I could reach You — in this world.
.enim toN .htgnerts ruoY ekat dluow tI
(It would take Your strength. Not mine.)
