Poem for winter: Wild-eyed birds

Across the crunching grass frozen

in the morning air silent,

expectant, and chill, in the

soundless margin of keenest

sense that hovers before first snow

run the squealing children and

fly the scattering birds

In such passage, round bright eyes of

birds and wild, untamed children

pulse as all else stands in margin, listening

In such hushed clarity I understand we will never be part of one

another. Breathe the bitter damp air before

the first snow and peer round-eyed

through the frozen twigs like the wild thing.

The snow begins like heaven spittle and the sounds return

to the yard but we hover in the heart of the forsythia

bush and shiver in the wind like the wild-eyed birds we are.

Copyright 2016 RC

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