That last book caused me more tears than I knew I had in me.
The trees turn gold with mystery, although science can explain it.
I sew a quilt made with bird’s wings, bound tight together.
Yesterday I heard a hawk’s soaring song, calling me back.
Today Hawk peered at me from the rooftop, she was laughing.
I sew a quilt made with fallen leaves caught just in time.
My fingers are stiff and swollen, but I stitch anyway.
My eyes are slits in dark grey cliffs. Do they open, or close?
Hawk asks me, What do the jays know of the blue they wear?
How is it they learn to see themselves? Or the juncos dressed for Winter?
I stand and stretch. I feel the way my breath insists inside of me.
The way my bones are able to right themselves.
Hawk is at the top of the dead tree, she is looking all around.
I stretch the quilt for her to see, choose a backing of birch bark.
Perhaps it will keep the leaves and feathers strong together.
Perhaps it will grow supple with time, absorbing the song,
And the falling tears.
