Birds Tell the Truth

Dawn charms its way past curtains and pillows. The truth is I've been awake long before now. Expanse blooms in this time alone. Gratefulness builds.

At the edge of the woods, fallen timber molders. A bare birch tree bends a little towards the east as blackness falls apart.

I remember asking priest hands to pray for me. Magic comes from what you believe. That summer a boy did not have my permission, so I guess magic can only protect you so long.

Pools of mulberry and mauve gather at the base of pines. The far off hum of morning traffic begins to rise. The train and I sigh as the world wakes hungry.

Back through the neighborhood, the skeleton of a hydrangea bloom skips across softening snowbanks. This and other scattered remains of summer surface for a brief time – perhaps as a sign of hope?

Chickadees and cardinals make the walk home enchanting. Sure, there are times when I can feel your fingers count the vertebrae down my back. But in this moment, the only moment that is real, birds tell the truth.

Over tea maybe we would discuss walking along the sea. Or how the purple moon blushes across snowbanks at night. Poverty presents in different ways. Tell me about the last time you let yourself go.

In the greenhouse, I carry a thousand baskets into the lean-to. This and other ways the body takes on the shape of work. Sweat-soaked shirt and dirt collecting around the ankles. This place has no magic – only the sweet agony of everything growing towards home.