Understand this: that love is a religion
of birds, of restlessness, of flight.
Of moving somewhere warmer when the cold sets in,
of longing, of leaving, of being
the one left behind, of feathers,
of an empty nest in the heart of winter,
nestled in some firm elbow of brittle branches
that stopped reaching for the sky when the last
leaf fell, bleak against a landscape of
blacks and whites and greys save for one
little piece of red string,
tucked lovingly among the twigs,
so dutifully gathered, piece by piece,
by a creature who had seen winters before,
but made a home for himself here anyway.