Morning Birds

Crisscrossing in trees
high notes branch to branch
watery tumble of sound even in summer drought
they find one another      not sky
nor another parched night
can separate or silence them

Your mother
running down tall stairs
to greet another day
still dressed as a hundred year old hajji
filled with chattering joy
Would you follow her?
Even in a dream I hoped

Absence makes no sense
more present than the men I see
tell me anything

What you wanted and didn’t get
more haunting than everything that happened
someone leaves an open drawer
space in the drawer
field of mind shimmers with
an almost never arrived
keeps us walking everywhere we have to

Bow down to what you planted
this year small glossy figs fill the bowls
sweetness a rebuke to battle and bomb
all the ruins humans make
Given so few clues —
we bow to what is gone
what continues to grow

Printed from Cerise Press:

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