I sleep on emerald moss
twigs and leaves. I am what’s left
of what you brought here. Each day
I eat little, then less
and less until I rise and flutter
over this garden, sip sugar water
from crimson vases, my nectar
Here is where my birdsong is buried.
Fog and mist confine me
fog and mist console me like you
never could. Sky
to woman to earth, beast
to earth, eventually
all is earth.
Day’s end glows like absolution.
I can never leave this place.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 5.
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