alive: a poem

short are the days

but long is the heart

surrendered to the gray day,

a welcome cocoon from the garish

summer heat. saucy red heads

of the cardinal and downy woodpecker

break the misty winter curtain

only for a moment,

but long enough to pierce

the slumbering soul


sandhill crane

i hear you

throaty warbles on cue

as i step into the cold.

but i have yet to behold

the graceful arc of your neck

and the playful dance of your trek

along the ancient current.

oh sandhill, it’s as if you weren’t

so different from me

floating on the edge of free.

photo of birds flying
Photo by Brian Forsyth on

on not knowing. a poem.

it’s in the not knowing that the heart

wrestles with pain on one side and

joy on the other. not knowing whether

to write or not to write,

to build or not to build

to preach to the captives or to stay

silent. are the birds

full of such angst as they gather

before their great migrations? do they wrestle, too,

with the rumored warmth of the future

and the regrets they leave behind?

or do they just spread their winds and say

the hell with it all. i’m outta here.


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