Poetry
You were made to do hard things,
open the door to birch leaves
covering the porch with a gold carpet,
to tiny feathers left in the bird bath.
You may be clinging to a brittle branch
before it falls on me. There is no chart
or list to mark off, to allow a breather.
I know walls won’t protect you
when the wind spins like a dreidl
through the woods. It may whirl you
against the trunk of trees, flatten
you against rocks. But this is not
your only home.
When I look up,
I see you in a sliver of moon gliding
between stars, lighting the Milky Way
or some other universe that fills in
where you’ve been
to keep me whole.
Published in Amethyst Review