The Bowerbird

He builds a sitting room:
a roof of twigs, a carpet
of purple flowers.
On the floor, fruit shines
and stones make it proper.

Women come by when they feel like it.
Many turn away, keep looking
for something better. He waits.

Then, every so often, one will come
to stay in that sitting room.
And in the privacy of his blue beauty
in that perfect space,
she will lift herself, spread
her wings, each feather trembling,
and seduce him
with her small flash of finery.

The next day he begins
on the walls. The paint he uses
is the color of his lover’s
body, the promise of the stars.