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