Loss does not hit until you are treading a preponderance of pine and you hear it: crows softened by snow. Or until you return
It isn’t just the uncertainty of things, the hairline crack in the hawthorn trunk, the grackle banging into the window then disappearing. It is
All these years I was
waiting for God
to move in me
until I took flight,
was pollen, was rough seed
tossed by wind,
carried on bee underbellies,