The weight of his limp
feathered body in my palm
was less than that of a lemon.
Still warm, his wild heart
beat against me-a waxwing
who believed the blue
of the shop window
to be more open sky.
I know the way what
looks to be a clear path
is often an illusion.Why is it
we only begin to trust
when we are truly broken?
Inside my house, he soon
stood, clutched my finger,
ate millet from my hand.
Within days, he flew
out of my life.
Field Notes: Cedar Waxwing by Heather Swan | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
Heather Swan is the author of the poetry books, A Kinship with Ash, and Dandelion, and the nonfiction books Where the Grass Still Sings: Stories of Insects and Interconnection and Where Honeybees Thrive.
