It’s mid-March, and the first real snow is falling.
I have learned to make a good fire since he left,
though I’m unsure how I’ll pay all the rent.
Still, this life is beautiful right down to the dog.
My daughter’s a pearl reflecting
all manner of light.
Flute player, meadow walker,
she disappears for days
into big blue books. Today in the sun
we kept busy with seeds, feeding all the little birds
in our gusty corner of the valley;
it was Finch TV till sunset.

One red-breasted specimen crashed
into our window at noon.
I brought him inside, held him two-handed
as his spirit landed back
in his brown body, and I
imagined cartoon stars
whirling in a halo round his trembling head.
He shat twice in my hand, blinking.
Back outside, he flew away audibly
and at a tilt toward some scattered seeds,
like a tiny, feathered jet plane.

O Creator of snowflakes, finches, and pearls,
I surrender. I wish to drift again
in your grace as a feather does: useful and light,
part of a miraculous wing.

If only I could pry out the pain and skip it,
frozen, across a dark lake
like a stone.