Parrot on the Vase
His face is turned to the side,
And with one eye, he seems to follow
Any move I may make. His gaze,
Strong and curious, is imposing.
The vase is full of lines, or strokes.
Lines in the background, lines
In the feathers, in the beak,
And in the crest. Colorful lines.
The parrot in the vase looks at me,
At us, and his reds and blues
Are vibrant at times, and then
Soft. The parrot in the vase is alive.
The background is at times white,
And at times sad. But the parrot
Is the star of the vase, he fills
The space the background offers.
The vase, empty now, one day
Will have flowers, real or made
Of cellophane. But the parrot will still
Be there, alive, and ready to fly.