A reverse abecedarian terza rima
Zig-zagging from orchids to bougainvillea,
young cardinals chase each other over the pool,
x-pollinating the water with a spectrum of
wonder, waste, or violence, depending on your schooled
view, petals so cleanly severed it’s as if they were sliced
under the blade of a guillotine. Taut with newfound skill,
they clothesline after their parents who spice
sessions of exercise with all 28 of their sounds,
regaling their prowess with every fresh race.
Quelled, we human dames and sires take to ground,
protect ourselves from such cherried joy.
Our obligations bind us like earthbound
nematodes, looking for a meal of army
moth larvae, although we are hardly beneficial bugs.
Living long past the ease of flight, we will be
kept around too long, like bottles and bags that need
justifying for expensive recycling. Crossing realms
into the physical world where the barrier sags,
here in these feathers it is said spirits find homes.
Groups of cardinals represent a windfall of luck,
family from former lives, winged crimson totems,
energy brokers. All are guides of light that crack
divine timelines or, master manifestors, those
creasing your path means someone has your back.
Believe. Believe. Believe, they hymn, their bodies
armed with God-whistles calling out the worst or best in us.
