Do you want to hold him
before we let him go?
asks Mother. I hold out my hands
for the bird that has flown
down the chimney
into our kitchen.
He is all heart. His beats
throb against
my cupped palms. I fear
his fear. Maybe he will die
right here in my hands.
Don’t let him go in the house.
Mother senses I am about
to uncurl my fingers.
Let’s take him outside.
We stand in the doorway.
Throw him up and out,
says Mother, and he’ll
catch the wind.
Now, I don’t want
to let him go. I will never have
this chance again—to hold
such wildness in my hands.
Go on, says Mother. Now.
I thrust my arms up
and out. He flutters off
balance, then finds an updraft.
I watch him fly and suddenly
know that it will be
my turn. Someday.
very smooth word flow.
love it, i feel like your speaking to me face to face.