Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2015  Vol. 14 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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on the daffodils.
You wore your blue hat
to refill the bird feeder. Hulls
on the white ground. In time, the missing
are found. Sometimes not. I knew a woman
whose son, after years in an institution,
grew sane again. Hope expands and contracts,
like ice or hate. The house with no doors
becomes a tower of windows. Now I can see
the row of pear trees you planted in the dark,
your shovel arguing with earth. When the birds
returned this year, I loathed their easy migrations,
their pesky hunger. You left your hat
on the hall table. The feeder is empty. Come home.  end  

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