Prompt (Two for Tuesday): Write a possible poem. Write an impossible poem.

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the bird in my hand
does not sing.
he cranes his neck
to preen iridescent
blue feathers, puffs
his chest and coos
when I brush his soft
yellow breast, nibbles
fingertips during feedings,
but he does not sing
for me. the bird in the bush
delights my path
in song, though I cannot
see his feathers, touch
his chest, or feel the quick
snip of his beak. Do I reach
into the bush, capture
his melody with both hands?
Do I let my adequate
companion fly away
for the possibility of
perfection unseen?

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013