Eat something, you say to your child.
Dry your tears. And if in the legend the birds
flew over without stopping, building a bridge
out of air to yoke one here to another there?
For years, all that humming overhead.
Every morning, the hard bread you dip
into the coffee and put in your mouth.
You say, It can’t be long now. The firefly
nourishes itself with so very little light.
What does it pine for, all night in the woods?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.