Bottled

If only I could bottle the morning bird song to hang from a string.
I'd place them over my head to slip soft and rest above my heart.

Round my neck I would hold tight
to a gentle peace that slips and fades
with the worries of the day.

Poetic words, happy sun filtered colors,
would flesh out my moments
and push back the gauze of responsibility and imagined goals that I don't quite remember making for myself.

The air around me,  the joy of new day greetings and soft shades of grass growing, everything here, no unseen desires,  no constant wondering at what could or would have been,
would be enough.

I long to be the bird song,
the peaceful bliss to calm the storm, found at each days end.

I want to be the bottle
worn round a neck to guard against
the unspoken comparisons.

I want to be the peace, the what if, the enough and too much.

For me,  if nothing else.