Accidental Birds by Deborah Howard

Accidental Birds

Deborah Howard

Let’s meet beyond the ticking of clocks
where the river flows over smooth stone
and wildflowers lace the muddy banks.
I will come over the stone wall,
knees bloodied from scrambling
across sharp-tongued granite.
You will walk out of the forest,
a canoe hefted on your shoulders,
past deer silent on fallen leaves,
smelling of rot and redemption.

There will be a vagueness to your face,
no more than a trick of light.
You will not remember
the snow that fell in oceanic drifts
outside the window
where your bed was moored,
the small hurts
or the last
when everything went on
as if it wasn’t so.

We’ll spread a blanket on the grass,
eat handfuls of honey,
watch the clouds swim through the sky.
I will ask who received you
and if they spoke with the voices of lost stars.

You will gather accidental birds in your arms-
the western grebe, the snowy egret,
the red throated loon.
You will whisper to them,
tell them how to find their way
by the green jeweled moss that grows
on the north side of the trees
and the position of the sun.
This time
I will listen.

More from Deborah Howard ↓

* @deborahcrafts on Instagram

* Her book, Haiku 52: A Journey Through the Year, is out now

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