I have read the runes left by birds across the stick,
Words of a kind in a dry, wooden bucket
I found outside, behind the dead barn.
Like birds we are, half-cocked faces, a call and response,
Listening and reading the wind as it berms and buckles.
Nothing makes us sure, claws bound to the branch.
Open windows blow in and out so much debris.
Tell me you wouldn’t agree, soul to sparrow?
Call it doubt, call it defeatism, as if any charge
Has the power to push this forward or move
Anything and year upon year doesn’t find me searching
Synonyms for stuck, to change your mind—
Eventually—the cold march of time will decide
You and me, the swell of our feelings like wildflowers
Overturning into another life, where I will love you again
Under the dirt or over it, with you or without, by and bye.