WAITING

Each night with a soft broom
I sweep our shadows into
a plastic red shovel
throw them
to the wind like ashes
scattered.

I sit on the front concrete
step in the morning
longing for the tui to
suck nectar from
the red bottlebrush tree.
She is troubled
by my sullen
greed and does not
return.

I call to the wind
but only the callous
rain answers, washing
away my waiting.

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