This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts
or unkind words, without suspicion
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel
No lust, no slam of the door.
The love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness or rancor-
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink,
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble
so at home in its pale green dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Bill Collins
