Start With The Thing That Can Fly Away
It was a goldfinch balancing on a teezle,
she’d planted it for this very reason,
and to see a tall hat of snow.
The custard yellow flashes,
the head dipped in red,
the white apostrophes on black wings.
But instead of drawing these
she started with winter-flowering honeysuckle,
the damp soil, an ivy-riddled fence.
She outlined every iris spike,
each cupping crocus.
When she was ready for the goldfinch
he released his grip,
flicked his wings
and flew into the gorgeous garden next door.