phoebe
so easy to fall into the pool
of red wine, to feel foul
and frail and without purpose,
sing the praises of the finish line,
and then
I see the april phoebe
race from a piece of ground filled
with twigs,
back and forth, beak full
of tomorrow,
to the beam outside my bedroom
where the next generation will be
born, open mouths rising
over the crest of that nest,
red and famished, demanding
and so vital, vigorous.
like this bird, zipping back and forth, zippering
back and forth
with focus.
healing the air,
knitting the tear in it,
challenging me
to open wide
red mouth
filled with request
and thanks.