you might have if it weren’t for all of the everything
all the talons in your arms; the empty birdcage in
your grandfather’s home. what a broken wing
for a feather girl to try and fly away on.
it was never so much about the wind,
but still I blame those limp and quiet breezes
their cruel words which coat the trees
and smothered all the things you might have said

hardly would your roots extend far enough
to reach me through those woods of oily fog
had i taken the time to draw a map
would we have found each other as before?
your heart may be the tracker of time, yet
there are some things you can’t unsay and we both have to live with that