Coppersmith

My hair still wet from the shower
I let it dry in the afternoon sun as I sit out on the back porch,
sipping lukewarm pearl tea.
I love the chunky feel of the ceramic mug in my hands.
The sky is such a brilliant blue
that it hurts the eye to look up.
A coppersmith calls, its high pitched note stands apart
among the low drone of insect noises.
It takes me off to a faraway day
another sunny winter afternoon like this one…
when your arms were around me,
your low-rumbling laughter in my ear…
We listened desultorily to another coppersmith…
I can still almost hear the sound of your heartbeat
and just as distinctly
that old coppersmith which is probably dead by now
(how long do they live anyway?)

The warm afternoon sun makes my eyelids and limbs
heavy with sleep
My hair is almost dry
My coppersmith chirps for a while…
waking out of my reverie
I realize
I don’t
hear it
anymore.