yellow birds

She sits by the door. Its old oak frame supports her thoughts as would a tree hold the very small nest in its’ safe mothering arms. The dreams flutter in the silence beating their tiny memories, playing a vision that dances on the sky blue walls. Nestled in between two knobby roots, one small delicate finger trails the hem of a flower garden in pink and blue. The petals smell real but feel like corduroy. She leans back into them feeling their warm tender hold and listens to the whispers ebbing like the tide back and forth. She is drunk. The sweet wine of yesterday is fully alive- hot in her blood. The bottle lays broken and shinning, reflecting the sun like a kaleidoscope. Like stars. They travel their path up the walls and across the sky marking time slipping away with each little yellow bird. Singing and playing. She studies their every shape holding them in her mind. Each time they seem to be a little smaller, a little less brilliant. Eventually they are replaced with squawking ugly things. Lumbering and Black. And the garden turns cold, dark. And in that place lit not wholly by the moon, she sees more clearly. What was early, sweet, is now just a memory. Neither cold nor hot. And the garden under the oak tree is just a sad girl in a frumpy dress, knees knobby, sitting by a door. Cold and alone.