Sprouting Red Feathers

Flight
raises me before I mean to rise
and nuzzle the pale yellow sky;
makes my walk spring like the season  
now thawing,
has me wink  
over the cold early air
at those mourning doves, a laughing pair.
 
Earl grey:  
exactly the taste
of lifting these heavy days
with arms that shine and
fall through cloudy weights;
that wear flight feathers  
now come to join
the sunglow in my summer voice -
 
In the robin, I've kissed more red awake
than the blonde dawn does in May.