Above the roar of the creek, a flock of goldfinches whistling:

What is it in the blood that quickens
again to the pulse of song, these bodies

hurling their small, inconsequential voices
against the larger expanse as though they

could color the wood back to green, as though
the sorrows of grey branches could be dressed

in other raiment? We went to bed on the longest
night of the year, exhausted by the accounting

for what we missed of opportunity and what
we meant the stars to guide us toward.

And now, at first light, we fold back the linens,
touch the place where the tears laddered down

our cheeks as we slept; we take up the thread
and sew our bones back into their flesh.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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