Hearbeat

in cupped hands,

rapid as thought,

as flight.

Curl and prick

of yellow toes

against my palm.

An insubstantial weight,

scant as warbled light.

Years unravel,

molt,

a drift of feathers –

yellow, olive, white.

Unclasp my fingers’

cage and —

like a dream,

a song —

my heart has gone,

the bird has flown.

My hands’ hollow

refills with stirred air

and a moment

passed.

Overwhelmed,

I stand –

a-weep,

a-stir,

a-flutter.

Newly fledged,

remade

in

delight.

 

— C.Birde, 10/17