We found the feathered body
beneath the window, red claws
stiffened into lower case C’s.
*
Whose voice is that then,
launching its frisson of a rising trill
across the field?
*
So little time: I clasp
the little tremor in my throat,
your hand under the table.
*
We pass the cup’s
clear lake of green
tea between us.
*
The French lilac answers,
its bright shimmer
backlit by the sun.
04 30 2011
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
AN EMPTY TABLE
The call for the final act jolts us
like the frisson of a rising trill
from an ephemera, perhaps a dream,
that you have, indeed, returned.
But the passing of clear, lake green
tea between us is an intermission
that is just that—a passing moment.
So little time. Like a quick tremor
on my throat. And your fingers must
yet again release my unwilling hands
from its fevered clasp, its grip under
this empty table. O, how fast thought
careens into a dying dream.
—Albert B. Casuga
04-30-11