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.

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