August Wren

I attune my coffee break to watching
the south window. I know she might come
making landfall where a branch
of chokeberries dangle their abacus
in the sunlight. She prefers odd-numbered days
when nothing appears equal and more time
is given to breath than stillness
as wind scatters seed and leaf
across the ledge. I have known her throughout
these Summer days, pecking at garden scraps
and pausing to distract me
when she wants to sing --
I am love's familiar , memory's bookmark.

Her wings impersonate the shade
of weathered timber, the same
mottled grain that comprised
the gazebo we sat in last weekend
lip reading the flowers and the clouds.
Rain fell quickly like a spray
of wedding rice , and we were christened
Jubilant, preserved
as the afternoon stayed cool
clinging to the height of evergreens
and the mountains' puckered stone.
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Note-- the painting is called, "Captive's Return" by Henry Ryland.