if I paint you on the tips of feathers,
gold and azure strokes of pigment,
before sending my homing pigeon out
with his message of love
carried through the wounded world
can I be promised in his return to me
he will have dripped the memories of you
off the plumes of his beating wings
into the ocean of forever?
or will he return
crested in the dried dye of nostalgia
covered still in the enamel of fondness
only to molt at my feet
leaving for me never to rid of
thoughts of you?