For The Birds (New) Poem by Alison Rosalie

trees tick-tock, their leaves
shiver and wither and stiffen;
the snow rarely descends, yet.

geese teeter, switching chilly feet
atop the lakes edged in ice.
the moon is nowhere to be seen.

each green grays or browns
but i am still sick with envy;
sycophancy has yet to seem serene.

my eyes are olive.
my heart careens.

girls glare
at the back of my head
as i stand still at the window gleam

half voyeuring the twitter birds
half examining the passing ghosts

envying anything that is not me.

it is not peroxide locks i want.
it is not sapphire eyes i desire.
it is not grand stature i am after.

only, if my curtain of tresses shone like goldleaf
rather than hanging like wet hay, i could gaze out like
an angel in a frame instead of a warbler in a window pane.

if i could replace my transfixed stare rigid as a hawk's
with something a little more lively, maybe i could refrain
from wincing your way and suspiciously stalking your gawk.

if i was just a tiny bit taller it wouldn't be so tough
to stand up straight and stare you in the eyes
unwaveringly as the crow flies.

if i had any rational reason to look
at the surface instead of straight through
maybe i could admire what i see
and learn to believe
that what you love isn't
wan locks
or cyan eyes
or commanding stature
but
sparrow-haired
green-eyed
diminutive
me.