You are the patient one
turning your white-haired
container of thought.
Which eye do you see from,
the one pointed at the sky
toward the secret under your coat,
the pocket where your heart lies?
The crackling has already started.
A wet mass of feathers
and spindly sticks
chipping away at the wall.
Thirty hours of hungry work
in the dark
while you wait.
The owl calls from across the field
and the wind holds out cups
of tea singing slightly.
I have never seen your king
though I hear he must be glorious
like you. His gifts scatter across
the floor of your high throne.
A sparrow calls to the air. I will look
once more at the circle of limbs,
the softness of grass, your breath,
the steel arrow of where your eyes
travel to next.