Photo by Ali Pli on Pexels.com
There go the sparrows
shot through with piercing arrows
cut in hollow marrows,
fall from fresh air
to the steel wheelbarrow
clanging like a bell in a Christmas carol
then rise up, spirit heir,
soar to paradise shoals.
—
I didn’t mean to dream
about sad bird things,
but the heat in the feathers in my palm
clung with me from the blankets
to the bath
to the blizzard wind:
rare soul,
how will you fare
above the clouds
in blue heaven?
Jordyn Saelor 