I sit alone and think of someone who once
wished to eat embers from my hands.
Maybe I’m wrong and all he wanted was to chew on tulip petals.
He could always pop up
from behind a tree or a street corner,
dressed in a coat the color of dandelions,
stitched with star threads.
He could carry a bouquet of birds:
blackbirds, sparrows, titmice…
Asked if he is well and happy
he would reply that he is fine,
spending his eternity in a letter box
listening to the patter of the rain.