THE NIGHTINGALE

You may ask why I
obsess
with the night
and its stars
and its light

How clamy palms
of its breath moves through
and brushes my wings
and cools
and soothes

You may ask why
the crickets pull out their violins
and sway in rhythm
While the smell
of the Earth grows strong

But wait
to lay on your back
with the grass touching skin
caresses in its black
against the moon
in a puddle sky

And listen
silently
with open arms
as I perch on a branch's
broken heart
out to you
out to me

Until my eyes grow tired
with the sun in its sky
I am buried beneath its soft white leaves.