A Chickadee's Workshop Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Under the bobbing ray
of a flashing sun
stroking my window
with tilting, tumbling

shadows, light thaws
alabaster and pearl hue
into the silvery float
of a burning candle.

The candle wears wings
of flying wax
dripping off in cotton
specks of a lace breeze
in daisy-winged air

with the afterfeathers
of a bird bolted out
off grassy knots
pulling a stretched legs

from the snare
of interwoven strings
and gossamer filaments

tossed and bounced off
whistling leafy hands
of hugging tree branches.

Show me new light
between old cracks
of afternoon spilling out

chiffon and powder air,
as new trots chase
off chirps into small holes.

(ii)

How my fossil specks
melt with flexed lances
of sun spun and sprayed
to weave a light

and shadow-threaded
nest, a nook for a small bird
trotting on the stool

and sill of a breathing window
drawing in opals
and ivory splashes of light.

The sun shoots arrows
to rip shifting onyx
and metal specks

into the white and black
feathers of a chickadee,

its black cap dripping
off into its wings
of tussock and tan feathers

until gargling and hissing
winds swallow the shrunk
bird's voice, leaving
emerald sleeves of twigs

and branches of trees
by the drifting window
carry me to the green shirt

of a man, who swung
punches after a drink
to send a neighbor
into a cushioning swoon,

the sun falling with too
little light for eyes to sip
after a glossy chickadee,

had swarmed rocky ears
with the hissing song
of wings spinning helices
to thaw off graphite clouds

on overgrown temples
and cheeks
into the silver beams
of a soft-singing bird,

as the sun lights
a candle under its tail
to glaze the bird
with a new brushing glow.