By Steven Luria Ablon

Her feathers flutter in the wind,
brown eyes shine, look at me
with a flicker, a turn of the head,
look at me again. Seeing her

this close is as rare as watching
a wild geranium bloom.
I hope we will linger,
become great friends

with no words, just conversing
in our heads. We could sit for hours.
The clouds thicken. Will it rain,
will worms come to the surface

to breathe? Her coat is tangled,
her breast dull red.
We are no beauties.
If she leaves, I will

look for new friends,
frogs, a turtle, an otter,
maybe a mourning dove,
but none as rare as her.

About the Author

Steven Luria Ablon, poet and adult and child psychoanalyst, teaches child psychiatry at Massachusetts General Hospital and publishes widely in academic journals. He won Academy of American Poets' Prize 1961 and the National Library of Poetry, Editor’s Choice Award 1994. His poems have appeared in many anthologies and magazines. His collections of poetry are Tornado Weather (Mellen Poetry Press, Lewiston, New York, 1993), Flying Over Tasmania (The Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, California, 1997), Blue Damsels (Peter E Randall Publisher, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 2005), Night Call (Plain View press, Austin, Texas, 2011}, and Dinner in the Garden (Columbia, South Carolina, 2018).