It hid in butterfly wings
and the spinnerets of Black Widows,
in the preening feathers
of birds on screen savers,
in baby carriages with ribbons and bows,
in bridal gowns between the folds.
Shook the ragdoll, boney fingered.
Bewitched neighbors to strangers
and strangers to enmity.
Clung to dorms, doorman, dowagers unheard,
flew on shuttle cocks like showy singing birds,
on the edge of tear-ducts, home to harried eyes,
in the Black Forest and North Sea sunrise.
Rode grocery carts and prescription warnings,
kissed children in their kindergarten mornings,
tripped kitchen corner window pane alarms,
charged the drawers of rolltop desks with charms.
Rattled naked nations
with tendrilled words, winds, and wonders,
pushed in tongues and vapors
entwined on flowered fingers,
perched in white-washed windows
the sleeping adder’s stinger.
Remembering closed lips of tulips too cold to touch.
Bill Fay is a 63-year-old retired engineering and published poet with degrees in Fine Arts, Electrical Engineering, and Business Administration. Fay is passionate about poetry writing, art collecting, history, running, hiking, biking, and walking. He currently resides with his wife Nancy and their two cats, Tucker and Annie, on Fox Island in Puget Sound near Seattle.