another call forgotten

In bed, after your body
shifts away — it's not
personal — a night wind
tussles the layers of leaves
and bends the tulip
in my heart. Turned
away, I think of that redbird
yesterday in your absence
outside our bedroom window,
bobbing on a branch in sporadic
lush of wind, clawing
this limb as April
was slurping the cold in waves.
And this bird's chirp — in me,
a slow filling-up of an empty nest,
a love about to peep,
then "pur-dee pur-dee!" flitting off
on a whim unfinished until now.