Winged Prince Poem by Frank Avon

The wisteria,
unblooming,
grown dense,
choking itself
with its own tendrils,
sways in the breeze,
basks in the heat.

Its density,
its resilience,
its resistance
to blossoming -
its very presence,
a huge umbrella of leaves,
is the image of our age.

But for a moment,
once or twice or
three times a day,
he reappears -
one of my other selves,
their prince,
the gladsome goldfinch.

At first it was
the sunflower seeds
that brought him
and his staidly mate,
but at last he has found
the sock I've put out for him
of nyjer seed.

If I step outside,
he skitters away,
all the way to the top
of the black oak tree;
he cannot know (or can he?)
how much I need him,
how much he means to me.

He shall return,
chipper, quick,
feasting himself
on a sunflower, the sock,
the trough of the bird feeder,
confident but cautious,
then away.

For the wisteria,
I weep,
so luxurious, so lost,
but for the finch
I raise my eyes
in praise: epiphany,
my glad new day.