But birds do not question, birds do not beg
the bird thinks my pockets are made of bread
and seems to think pecking is a way of asking,
what do you have today? an empty purse, a full mouth?
The brass animals line my desk, and on the mountain the green of spring is whispering a story of arrival
It feels silly to point them toward the window, as if to say,
look and look and look, everything in the world is coming back to life
even your little legs, you brass trinket, memory of trot.
I can't believe the whole world is collapsing again, it's so
cyclical, I almost laugh. Instead
I’ll call my father the inventor and tell him
I tried to make something of my own this time.
And just like always, I’m climbing again, onto the roof of the sky.
Winged idiot, so cautious and trusting