- By Ellie Aquilanti (she/her)
- Art “Margaritaville” by Claire Trask (she/her)
In the small house that always felt big
You sat perched outside my front window.
A flock, rooted in my
very own garden.
In the wind you lifted your blue
beak and puffed
Your tangerine feathers,
Admiring your reflection,
While I strained to look past my own.
On warm days I would sit on the stoop
And dream up your stories,
Where you flew from before
Planting yourself here.
You thrived in that endless
suburban sunshine,
Swaying hello to me bouncing up
the steps,
Chirping your songs for me on lazy
afternoons.
But then the sun escaped
Our loved days of evergreen turned cold and gray
I sat on the stoop to say goodbye
And you cried dewdrop tears,
Asking to fly with me.
I wanted to replant us, both, But I
didn’t have a garden...
Anymore.
