Poetry

I found
I was playing the whole house,

And suddenly, without warning
this long year of suffering
comes back in fragments,

for I too take my bearings
in a manner unfamiliar
to solid daylit creatures

I lean into the gale

call it brave, call it saintly, call it love

I could never make a meal of skate again
remembering you, brave wingless thing.

Who am I to prune the surging crown?

just ordinary
sunlight
shimmering through a drizzling, autumn rain