series1bk3.5.4

 

My hands caress the gossamer glass tresses  of a brand new bejewelled ornament, which rests in a scented nest - an object to peer at and revere, while fearing it'll break at my clutching touch. Taking a look from a high window, a winter garden lies itching at the brink of Spring, and tingling into floral life, it fascinates my dilating eye with exquisite secret patterns. Statue-still, I watch the movement of a plumage- blooming bird of paradise, marital-minded in finding adept steps in its ritual dance - then prancing to wing, perhaps gone forever.      I thrill to what I might - but do not - dare,      while balancing 'twixt ardour and despair.