Flight
My hands are like ice
this wet April morning
as I watch ducks
ripple the water in the pond
And yesterday a blue heron
rose from the mist
and earlier a lone turkey
strut the field
and the grass is as green
as Ireland
Alone, I reap the years
when I squandered
my bankroll of
compassion in self regard
my solitude guarded
with fangs
No one to fling their arm
round my neck and draw
me close
No one to share words
in coffee steam
no your shirt is mis-buttoned
comb your hair, where are my
glasses
But now
wrens fly from nest
to worm
squirrels chitter and chase
seeds are pressed into soil
excitement
warmth
laughter through the window
Now, now is the time
to turn it all around
To begin again
To flourish
