Being Seen
       

Pressed to sing to crowds, I'm hesitant,
unsure, prefer the cover of the canopy,
elusive like the grosbeak, but not quite shy.
Strict as a monk about my tea,
but aimless on rural roads
cluttered with the triumphant sharps of birds
and the double-tumbling of their flight.
It's here I roam and thrive.
My hungers churned from tangled vines,
all closing prayers shaded by kaleidoscopic leaves.
My mother loved the swallows one-by-one.
I want to touch you from here
behind the fringe. This is our world.
This is my only life.

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Copyright © 2020 Tara Bray All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission