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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