The Visit

I open the door.  A robin brushes past
into the house,
and I'm left breathless,
reeling at the dry touch
of feathers on skin.
Hands out,
like a blind man searching.

She's perched at the top of the fridge,
motionless.  I reach, but my fingers
are left empty
as she flits away.
She's frantic, thrashes, scatters
forks and knives from the counter's edge.
I reach again, and she crashes
into the mirror, billows
drapes, tilts a lamp.
Finally I stand rooted,
and she settles on the back of a chair.

Dare I move, or will silence disappear
into winged confusion?
The room's quietness descends,
encircling the two of us.
We look at each other, my eyes to bird eyes.

How helpless I feel
as she plants her leg in the trim lawn
of my green chair.
I wonder that no song pours from her.
I wait, but the notes never come.
The walls strain,
as if holding back more birds
and trees, leaves and insects.

Have I been replaced by a thing with feathers?
This furniture, is it truly mine?
My house has rearranged itself.

I make a choice, move one hand
slightly.   All stays quiet.
I move the other.
My arms extend, gradually reaching
like branches growing outward
until my hands at last unite,

and she rests in my palms,
her body throbbing like a feathery heart,
dry and pleasant when I hold her close
to my face.

Later, I let go
on my back porch.  Books and chairs
inside my house
slide to where they were
as her beating wings rise above my yard.