To a Parrot

A friend once wrote beautifully, perfectly,
something that said, basically: in the winter,
the world is an open vessel, waiting
for a swath of snow to settle
on its lips, in its belly.
Waiting for moisture,
something soft, to dull
harsh, brittle sharpness.
The branches crack and wait.
The ground hardens to clay, waits.
At night, the sidewalks freeze and wait.

A parrot perched on my mailbox
the other morning and cocked
his head toward the mountain
in the distance, saying, "Stories
are like snow, they're all just
drying up." My curtains yellowed
another shade and moved
on their hangings because I'd
left the door wide open to see
this parrot prophet.

Far from the jungle, in the driest
place I've known, he started a new
life. Ghosts of rainforest songs
fell on his feathers as both twirled
to the lawn. Long, thin raindrops of rainbows,
they splashed their lushness onto brown
matted grass. A shade of cerulean blue
loosened itself from his beak and streamed
onto the walkway. I fed him grapes
and orange juice with water.

The night he left I cried for hours,
couldn't tell when the sun had
started rising, but then it was up
with an unassuming gray, dull light.
I ached for the flash of bright
sitting on my stoop, but I stepped
outside and instead saw the world
had finally been sated
with thick slabs of snow and I knelt
in the wetness and cupped my hands
around the glittering memories
and bent my head and drank it all.