Birds make the tips of greenless branches bloom –
baubles with beating hearts
and wings to take them away
on the twelfth day.
I love a blue sky,
but clouds are more to look at,
and the cars make the town less lonely,
though they choke it too.
Are those crop-circles in the field,
or the traces of me pacing around and around and around?
Waiting for you.
I want to decorate you the same,
and hang from you always.
All you’ve got to do is say.