03-10 Throwing Thistle To The Wind

I find a park bench,
to sit down on,
in the house of September,
where Spring,
quince of thorns,
blossoms worn,
blesses my feet,
though I am cold,
I shiver,
back to the wall,
back to the wall,
back to the wall,
away from,
her early morning light,
sliding golden down my face,
as if to say, it will be okay,
it's just another sunrise,
in the house of September,
she stays,
in my hands where your letter,
tells me I am a mistake,
sitting on a park bench,
with my back to the wall,
my back to the wall,
back in the house of September,
I fold,
your letter in my hands.
I make a few phone calls.
What can I do? I am a mistake.
I make a few phone calls.
I am not sure what else to do.
I want to stay on the park bench,
and wait,
back to the wall,
for another sunrise,
but I don't, instead I write,
letters, poems, stories, songs,
applications,
sending all my songbirds,
to arms, writing applications, singing songs,
telling stories,
and I forget about the poems,
and the letters, when my mom calls,
to listen to me, sitting again on the park bench,
back to the wall, waiting for another sunrise,
back to the wall.
I am not patient. I am not kind.
I am angry. But she listens,
to me trying to be patient,
trying to be kind,
trying not to be angry.
There must be some mistake.
Only one.
I reply dramatically.
I am a mistake.
I hang up the phone.
The songbirds have gone,
having armed themselves,
with songs, letters, applications,
poems, and
I am left, to wait the day, with
Spring, doodling, away by my side,
back to the wall, on a park bench,
where I am a mistake,
then
I forget,
about the poems and the
letters when from her lips
fall blossoms of feathers forming,
two finches, yellow lemons,
orange, and black rinds,
citrus and thistle on their mind,
citrus and thistle, they are both
male, bright, I had been waiting,
for months,
throwing thistle at the wind,
she smiles, coy
takes your letter from my hand,
throwing thistle to the wind,
and folds, forms, finds,
one last songbird to form
fold, find, to arms,
she whispers,
flies, from where
I sit on a park bench
with my back to the wall
in the house of September,
with my back to the wall
with my back to the wall
on a park bench,
throwing thistle to the wind,
I am a mistake.
throwing thistle to the wind.