From the Mourning Dove, in Spring

What is remarkable 

are all the days I 

don’t remember, how I've 

forgotten one morning and the next.

I’ve lost the way the sun can 

split the night’s dark sky 

with a dawn.

I am thinking now of 

rising. I am 

wondering what song I could 

sing when the first pollen-heavy flower 

unfurls, when the bees

come trembling and the world 

finally opens, unafraid. 

Could I wake

From my heartache, could I 

fly into the ready, wild 

and beyond?

No. I will stay, held here 

by my suffering on the branch 

of the live oak, head 

bowed, wings 

folded and gray.

Come and listen. 

I will bury again 

this spectacle of dawn 

under my persistent

and triumphant 

grief.