Purple Finch

The purple finch is not purple,

not the ones at my feeder feeding,

more of a red than purple, but not

like cardinals’ or red-breasted robins’

red, too bright or a rusted breastplate;

maroon perhaps, which is

a purple of sorts, sort of, though not

the purple of lilacs or the grapes

crushed to wine, nor the Merlot

or Cabernet they become, fermented,

dry wines made better with the passing

of age and shared with friends,

as I share this finch with you now,

a finch of its own color, this purple finch

feeding at my feeder, sharing himself,

and leading me away from the dull

matte of my summer days winding down

and the approaching autumn of life,

to take wing and fly away,

and return.