The Nine Day Ricochet
(2 of 5)
I’m thinking of a color. Fewer. Nevermind.
Not completely, but fully.
Find a flower and keep it
down. Find a flower give it
a world to raise,
this bright dancing cannot store.
A yesterday thick to remark stray hen kept bobbing
its brown and red head down to the green ground
clucking once for each lost chick.
Poor bird, clearly mad, counting its absences, mad.
Dogwood east of river hungry.
A small world sings its losses.
Your squirrels wake daily and ricochet
from tree to tree with their sorrow.
Yes, everything is fine and dying and blessed
be this plunder song of live and take.
Birds we could never own fly again against
an otherwise almost sky. Little hopes, Little hopes.
It’s like standing in the sand and crying out.
Our slingshots full of empty sunlight, the giant
back on his feet again.