It was an overcast evening
when you chose to flit past my window
like a bursting streak of blue against
mundane layers of gray wood.
You made your home near my windowsill
one rainy morning, nestled in branches
that glistened with raindrops
of a newborn tree I had planted yesterday.
You were a friend when the lonely days came,
when the wind swept by and chilled me to the bone,
when the leaves had fallen and long since disappeared
and even your tree was bare.
I remember leaning against the glass pane
and tracing swirls in the fog of my breath
while watching you dance lightly atop the straw
and feed your young family.
It was entertaining to watch them all grow up,
to watch you glide weightlessly through the air,
to watch the days fade away
behind your azure feathers.
But that was the past
and now you are gone
and I wait by the windowsill
for next year.