April
My bones are brittle as the sparrow's
that lie splintered on the sidewalk;
the wind whistling through its hollowness.
Winter picks at flesh, crumbling it away
like snow, until only frost covers tendons
that stir in remembered movement
at the cajoling of air. Bones remember life,
and spring time: the melodies of small fowls
with quick heart beats and eyes opened
against the night. Winter echoes with owls' calls,
mournful of death and the necessities of survival.
I'm sorry, I whisper to the irises that smother
under ice, and wish for summer. Once,
I was a hawk in the body of a sparrow.