Dear heart, at the wood’s edge, the blue-
headed vireo repeats its only line. It isn’t true
it has nothing to say— just as it isn’t true
that sameness will not want to make us
look again. The wind disturbs the waterfall
of dogwood blooms along the branch
and when they settle back in place
they are themselves, but also different.
The same way you return but also dazzle
with your many aspects, one day turning my
heart on its side and another, making me
cry out; or rendering me without speech.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.