A pressing cloud
time could open or lift
maybe a wind maybe a branch
in the path of a small bird,
her feet trembling,
to grasp just and dare hope
she will fly away and make useful,
a branch into a home.
Memory is my strength, the press
of air on a sea of golden leaves
and blaze of autumn a cane:
I will walk forever even when my feet
are broken birds like birds broken
beneath the lowest branches- to see
but not see they are gone, me
and others falling will keep falling
like a feather falls with no weight or rush but softly like wings rasp in the air.
Our hearts stay a cold resin, deep in the old oak, a wind nor a bird could lift
with song- but memory, a pressing cloud
barely touches and touches
every thing- and heralds every step.