Breezes and Birdsong
Amid the calls of the cicadas
and bursts of airplanes overhead,
a spring breeze sings through my hair.
As it flits along my eyelashes
and capers about my dress,
a symphony of birdsong stains the air.
I fly a hand into the balmy atmosphere,
perhaps to steal these sensations or sounds,
but my fingers grasp nothing, save wind.
love the verbs in your poem