What Would Happen Then
A bird, bright and quick, blue with livid streaks,
would arrive on the windowsill, as official harbinger, and then.
The low would be raised up,
the sneers crushed under their own bricks,
the teeter-totter would cease to choose sides
and sit in peaceful sway on its fulcrum
The kiss that had been held back
all those years at last would release
into the mouth in flood.
And why not would replace all other dicta,
but gently, as a sunlit nudge.
By April Bernard from Swan Electric