The all-around view was brambles
in a weaving of tree-twigs
some like beaks
when infant-feeble spring
is late in April’s cradle
under a vast membrane,
the bird breast of sky.
I waited with
the suspense of a dreamer
in a house gone from splinters
to thorns when something
gave me the sustenance
to face
the mildewed not exactly
beautiful nest of nature
and strain insatiably for
what ferries a cloud down
lavishing
the strength to wing it
after the teasing warmth.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.
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