I rest my chin on the windowsill;

the shadows on the valley

confuse me, all buttery

and slippery, never staying

long enough to be

a tree or a man or a town.

I would like to be held,

I whisper into the glass;

The weather forecast made me

cry and whether it was

the falling barometric pressure

or the severe drop in estrogen,

I understood Chicken Little

like never before

and just hoped I’d survive

until the next surge.

he held a bird in his naked hand,

oblivious to the throngs of people

waiting for a song

clouds spoofed better days

by huffing and puffing across

azure skies, leaving mile-high happy trails

I’m being led to loll about

in scenes that aren’t really there

and I don’t want to know what’s true

we’re either being spit out by

a universe that knows we’re a mistake

or being swallowed by our own delusions

if he lets go, will the bird leave a feather

as a memento or as a warning

and is there a difference

It’s a rather desperate longing

and I can’t tell

if it’s for tea or touch or new twists

on old loves that’s pulling;

the supermoons have been relentless

and spring is violent this year.

I can keep up, I say uncertainly

drawing wool over limbs eager

for warm places.

the cloud was scary

and did not move fast enough

I wonder at the shape of feet

(though mostly I ignore them)

and other vessels of transport

or destruction

there was no rain

and night was wishful thinking

could I repopulate a town

if I had to start over

and is it even worth it

to notice stars in the dark

buds burst open on trees

as if in a race toward hope

the crow was jaded and sleepy

– I am that crow