Small hidden songs, etchings by brooding larks
who message on dozens of white birch barks
and lift off to cranny in nooks in the dark,
waiting for mates to read–to trace their marks.
My color-fond friend, you were this to me.
You mapped me out, molting, asked me to sing
my magenta hymns, in shadows release
all my rainbows to rollick, work fledgeling
wings, rolling out such sounds from our beaks
that even if the forest didn’t read
the scratchings, never felt the flying beat
blown out from our gliding (bouncing off leaves)
or heard how we gluttered red symphonies–
I’ll alway listen for you, in the trees.
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. She believes in densely-packed poems, preferring them to be mouthfuls when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves water-side living. She currently lives in Edgewater, Maryland with her wife. Her published poems can be found in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine and Spillwords Press.