catching a robin
as a promise
(a birthday in may is so fortunate)
a small porcelain face presses through the stained orange slats
of a poorly built deck
for the sign of a mother
to hold
her feathers in your hands
and feel the weight of what’s
smaller than
you
to cradle
her babies,
all the time fearing the bright blue will
rub off of their shells and onto your
palms
a permanent stain
Comments