Poetry

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

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