The thrush has gone away.
At the very least, the brown wings
have not returned
to weigh down on the branch of the blossom tree.
The rose that rambles over the trellis
and vulnerable to the vagaries of wind.
At least when the feeding mother lets her weight
bear down on the thorns
there is some stability,
some attention holding the structure.
This may not be a heavy hand, or even a reliable hand,
but it’s like a listening ear, an attentive embrace of the neck,
a something that relieves the waving flowers
of having to stand on their own.
It doesn’t have to be that thrush,
a wagtail caress would be sufficient comfort
to remind my rose
it is never truly alone.