Goldfinch

Glowing breast, more vivid

than each rendered hue

from the palette I left

when I heard a cue.

Palm can barely sense

a body meant for flight.

I should have never

held such softness and light.

Oh little yellow one,

single drop of red,

does not seem to merit

being put to bed.

Will your color fade

in hours after I lay

you upon the brush

and dusk blows warmth away?

Your eye is pale with

face toward the meadow.

Gold shines brightest now

set off by the shadow.

To me, you’re more vibrant

this side that bold line.

Were that dark edge not yours,

it would have been mine.