She stands, pressed hands to glass to look
upon summer morn. A bird flits,
from to and fro, in leaves of trees,
swoop to sip from lemonade buds,
lending joy to common places.
A small hand touches mine, and then
a single word, soft: “bird.” She beams
in pride. Equally pleased, I pause
to give her a pat, feet padding
to patio door. And open,
warmth rushes inside, she rushes out,
a pout on her face and dawning
realization. It is neither
as lovely as she imagined
nor as free, and the bird is gone.
This started as an exercise in blank verse. Although I abandoned the attempt to form this into iambic pentameter, I would very much welcome critique. Particularly on meter. It is a weak point of mine and I am trying to improve on that.