I bet you’ve got a million poems written about you
With your sweet song of love, sky dance and set hearts a flutter, flutter.
But I’m not here to be flippant or fawning
You make me be here. You make me be aware.
You see from that vantage of a trilling speck on blue
That all of I have built citadel, cities, and sent yonder, yonder.
[shutting houses shutting souls]
Unable to be in the time and place.
And like mine, yours came from the old country, peak R. Victoria
Yours, mine, making shallow nests in this land.
“Tamahine! Quick, come! Can you hear the Skylark?” I call in glee.
“Look, all the way up there, can you see?”
Craned, cocked, in wonder or amusement
We stand, hands in hands
We see, from our vantage of a P. Radiata deck, you
We make you real. We see you up there.
Imbuing appreciation of what is not indoors
With your whistles of that voice same as circa eighteen sixty
Constant not flighty
Build, breed, brood, bird, Brother.