As you whitewash the walls
you demand that I am opulent.
Spreading your arms wide
behind you a black shadow grows,
wings fanned, it steals up and out.
"You are harsh!" you caw, pop eyed,
tenting your hands to stop my flight.
With your roof over me
I am slain by the redundancy of hopeand weep. You sing, "You are mine!"
Obscured by your timpany of percussive notes
I grow, I straighten.
Strong and limber like a Poplar in the breeze
I jettison you for tastes new. To search
for a season of cherries sweet and round.
The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack