a blue jay looks for you
at three o’clock everyday
you stroke its wings with a tenderness
not unlike your mother’s
as your tears fall, the bird bathes
until it feels clean enough to leave you
and everyday at three o’clock, it returns
wearing twenty-four hours of memories
as you weep, the bird sings a song
its music making way for catharsis
you wonder if the bird is a past lover
but you are the lover and the bird is the past
Image Sourced From The National Gallery of Art
Not an Artist 