tell me if this is all true

Ecstasy and the Redbird

Always, the first day
I burn, the sun and the beloved already evident

in my unprotected blush.
A redbird works so hard to unwind the dead

moonflower vine from the fence
for her nest, but she might have to give up.

Take a strand already broken, fallen,
or a thin twig, brown stem, scrap of a previous season.

She and I are nothing
alike, except in this: pale red coloring,

nesting impulse, bricolage, and making do.
I think I can say that.

I don’t claim for her love or romance
or any perspective at all

on me.  In that last, I am also like her.
Always, the first day, in ecstasy and burning.

Kathleen Kirk