On The Birds

Is love like this? A trap, a whirring thing
That hunts you down by beak, and flock, and wing,
And makes you turn, with mesmerizing stare,
To see it gathered in the folds of air?

Perhaps not love. Perhaps what you will take
For love, when it’s all else that you’ll forsake
To have the feeling, pecking at the glass,
That whelms the self until the moments pass.

What causes this? Oh, it’s so hard to tell.
Boredom. Daily life not going well.
A tingling in a dream of what could happen,
A witch that whispers that the dark will open

To a word, a thought, an ordinary glance:
And all the birds fly in on circumstance.