He makes an excellent fire, the fire is not the Sun.
Tuesday, Heat, day two, he is ironing my shirt in the living room
I slept well last night, all things considered
The blackout blinds really help with nesting
He is here, again. Before the dashed rocks
The flowers bloom, the naiads stir
I bring him the prey for hide
He combs for ticks with pride
I tighten my claws around his gauntlet
he put a hand to my head
I bow down to the glove’s buckle
and a beak fumbled to undo it
and he strokes me with his thumb
I cry out for him to clip my wings
his ears give him a chirp
And he undoes a thorn
The grass yellows
The wind blows
Why won’t you let me stay for snow.
He made chowder for dinner, loaded the dishwasher and then we watched TV.
I wish he could bite.
Quid pro quo
Once upon a time, a girl tended to a town’s gardens, her own garden bloomed every spring and the boys would come to see.
The baker’s son brought her a loaf to eat and left with garlic for his bread.
The beekeeper’s son gave her a pot of honey and the honey smelled like her flowers. And left the house with flowers for his father’s smoke.
The hunter’s son set traps so vermin would not eat her garden, and left with herbs for his mother’s sausage.
She welcomes them, and she welcomes the gifts. She is too busy tending the garden to venture afield.
And the clerk’s son, the clerk’s scrawny son brought to her books.
He would read to her the stories about dragons and knights and where they grow spice in the orient.
And she loved the stories, and she would weave flower crowns for her poet and his notebook found a place on her table.
Her garden bloomed every spring, the boys kept bringing her the gifts that sustained the garden.
But, the young poet could keep his notebook on the table, and only for him would she weave a crown.