Something Found

something found

I thought I had lost—

my old friend

How Many

How many bird songs

does it take to make one dream?

The meadowlark knows.

on a distant hill

conspiracy of ravens

sharpening their tongues

no one noticed her

clawing the bark of the oak—

one dry leaf trembled

writing the magic—

scribbling on blackberry leaves

words to green and grow

In the library,

no one is reading a book—

everyone’s texting.

They do not know me,

the foxes and their vixens,

yet they sing to me.

Nothing is wasted,

not even the stray feather,

lifted by the wind.

They do not know me,

the sparrows in the barn loft,

yet they sing to me.

Who is wise enough

to hold three stars in her hand

without getting burned?