Grab hold of a hill-full of fog and the morning slips away
like the hours alone on the rusty screeching swing,
back and forth until loss of shadow reminds us
to take bread and eat for that keeps our bodies pushing through
this space, all green and succulent even when buried
beneath a controlled burn (if the spirit can weather such a thing).

An open hole to sing from is the same place for stuffing bad things,
but what comes out may be beautiful, like how we love
is always more than how we fear and touch is a gift not meant to last…
A rush of migratory birds makes us forget whatever prayer
we were repeating and for a moment we pretend to have direction too,
a place to belong that exists only in moving air.