Bird Sonnet, for G.

You balanced me like a peacock feather
on your hand, hollow stem rising from the palm
tall and unsteady. In the whistle of each fall,
glitter and sable and gold-green,
I heard the flashing music
with which you strung me through,
wove of me a wing
so you could fly that curved garden, her hair,
spears of black grass with sorrowful roots.
But I knew myself a cloak of tenderness
made from the flighty songs
our tongues spun together at night,
those sad looms,
and I warmed you until arrowlike you shot off.