when the wind blew down the trees,
in tune with the rain,
maybe it was you?
who gathered around the table, chips,
salsa feathers flying, all my misters,
clucking, chortling, turkeys at the feast,
conversations on a viola playing,
ginger-bread men, giggling,
sunshine teasing in her ruby slippers,
even the quiet, drama-turg, clicked her heels
commenting on the gravy,
while others passed the potatoes,
showing off their guns,
remarking on the winter weather,
listening to the clarkified jazz spinning,
on the turn table,
whiskey in the glass,
whiskey in the glass,
all the pretty lasses,
whiskey in the glass,
all the while, inside,
where the heart rested,
the snow fell, in sugary flakes,
glistening, where I gathered,
them all in red, preened my hatching feathers,
one for each, a song, a poem, a mister,
and one for me,
one,
(flash, snap, pop)
fade,
last night I heard a voice,
when the credits rolled through the trees,
in tune with the rain, calling,
maybe it was you,
maybe it was you.
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