The Bird and Her Bench

A little bird

Perched

On the iron armrest

Of a bench

Just outside

The library.

.

It was a funny bird,

For I saw it daily

As I went to write,

But not once

Had I observed

A fat worm in her beak,

Not even a movement,

A stretch,

Or a song.

.

So I devised a little plan

To watch the bird,

All the day long,

To wait

For a sign of life.

.

My bag that next morning

Was filled with cheese

And crackers and tea

That Mother had packed,

And of course,

A plethora of journals

And books.

Virginia Woolf

Moleskine

And Bic

Would keep me going

For a while.

.

At roughly 8:05am

I planted myself

On a step

Across

From the bird and her bench.

.

With my nose in a book,

I glanced up

Each moment

To see if she

Had moved.

.

Businessmen, students,

And mothers toting children

Toddled in

And out

Of the library.

.

Hours passed.

.

My cheese was gone, my tea

Half empty—

But still she did not move.

.

I stared at her,

My imagination running wild

As defense against the monotony.

I stared and I stared

And I read

And I stared.

But still she did not move.

.

My back began to ache,

My imagination was brimming over,

And my eyes were sore from the sun.

.

Tentatively

I picked up my things,

And moved over

Toward

The bird and her bench.

.

I sat on the bench

And eased

My back,

Gently onto its wood,

But still she did not move.

.

So growing impatient

I untied my journal

Picked up my pen

And filled up the pages.

.

I was so inspired,

After hours of devising,

And I flung poem

After poem

Onto the paper.

.

And then,

Not suddenly,

But with a

Gentle,

Floating ease,

She cocked her head

And stepped

Slowly towards me.

.

I watched her talons

Coming my way

Until she was right there,

Beside me,

Looking into my eyes.

.

An ethereal stare

Was held between us

And I felt a slight warmth

Captivate my mind.

.

It was so strange,

What was happening.

This bird, so unlike

Any living creature,

Who never ate

Who never moved

From her bench

Was now watching me

In an immaculate fashion.

.

Figuring the bird

Would not

Leave the bench

Any time soon,

I turned back to my journal

And wrote

Some more.

.

With each word

I put down,

The creativity

The inspiration

That had fueled me

Just

Moments before

Dissipated into

The warmth

And I was,

In the most literal sense,

At a loss

For words.

.

I shut the journal

And realized

That the warmth

I had felt

Was much stronger

Than before—

Some sort of gentle energy

Embraced my mind

And my soul

And

My imagination.

.

And this warmth,

Visible in just the faintest way,

Flowed from me

And into she.

.

She now glowed

With a fullness

Of life.

.

As my mind was emptied

Her frame was strengthened.

The glorious blue

Of her feathers

Deepened and spread

And she ruffled them

And stretched out the wings

Of her

Renewed

Body.

.

I sat there

Thinking nothing

(But in the most glorious sense!)

And I watched

And watched

.

As the warmth left me,

The transaction complete,

She rose elegantly

To the air

And flew

Far away.

.

I was now

Left alone

Just me and

The bench

And though sapped of

Inspiration,

I managed

Somehow

To come up with a plan

For my

Next poem

Which

I would title

“The Bird and Her Bench”

.

.

— a poem by T. Lareveur

.

Image Credit: Michele Avanti

http://fineartamerica.com/featured/bluebird-on-a-bench-michele-avanti.html

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2 Responses to The Bird and Her Bench

  1. What a lovely poem! Thank you so much for sharing. I love it! 🙂

    Like

  2. Thank you so much! I am always grateful for feedback and it is wonderful to know that at least one person in the world gains something from what I write.

    Liked by 1 person

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