BY ELIZABETH SOUTHWOOD
I used to hope that my own mockingbird
would serenade each and every night.
I prayed that one would, yet I never heard
a close-to-me bird sing with pure delight.
I heard others sing all around the town.
They warbled and chirped and serenaded.
I asked friends why mockingbirds settled down.
“If they fall in love, they will stay,” they said.
I listened to cellos and flutes instead.
One night through the open windows and door
I heard sweet birdsong. Realization spread.
I heard the voice of a mockingbird soar.
I sat mesmerized with joy as the notes
poured out, melodies, trills, sweet warbling too.
I love the songs from my mockingbird’s throat.
The one for whom I was waiting was you.