Talking to the Anole in the Arbor

​
One sided of course I say
my say. He answers his black
dot eyes, flicks fingers on his forefeet.
Five fine fingers thin as eyelash.
He climbs another rung, looks me
askance.  Who are you?   Turns
his finely chiseled head, looks
with hooded eyes. So green
bright as light, blends 
with early leaflets, almost 
hurt-the-eyes green. Puffs 
his throat, his white lace
collar. His red armor?   
O my miniature dinosaur 
scaled down to finger size.
Your bumpy head I want
to touch, stroke, connect.
But your tail, your long lash
at least six inch tail
tapered to the width of string.
Where did you come from?
Where will you go?
Is my garden your grace
place?  The air your prayer?