To the pigeons of Paris,
The Eiffel Tower
Is just another perch.
But flight… ah…
To step off and…
To not fall, but to fly,
Now, that is
A wonder.
My love
Is a tower.
I have built it
Slowly over years
From little bits of you.
A smile, a look,
A raised eyebrow,
A curled lip,
A scent,
All added on to lift it up.
Up into the air it goes,
A tower of desires,
A wonder
Of little memories
And expectations
Standing tall
In all its futility,
A towering symbol
Of desire for you
And hopes of you.
Then, with a smile,
With a look,
A raised eyebrow,
A curled lip,
A scent,
You step off
And you do not fall.
You fly.
You fly away.
The wonder
Is not The Eiffel Tower.
The wonder, my dear,
Is the pigeon.
Alan Platt
From a new series of poems Fierce Love