There it splays in winter trees
for just this moment,
the play among the gray, the bark
cleansed by snow, the branches
gouged by frantic squirrels, across
from the sloping porch, the railings
sunken into the bare wood, each
thing reflected in the other, throwing
shadows like foil into the melting street
where finally the light sings and washes
the empty air and rises
alone for the morning doves
that sit on the wet slick wires
threading the sky like music lines
and the shadows creeping in this room.
The birds have no wings.
The skies in my sleep are blank gray,
whirling with an emptiness
that fills my sheets.
A fat robin stands on a rose bush:
light, brilliant, loud as a violin,
unlike the other birds, indistinguishable.
The breeze brushes my face
as it stirs the red petals like paint.
The robin’s chest furls where I feel the wind
in my hair as I wake.