the women tell me
there is soon to be a baby.
I remember calling my brother
upon the birth of my oldest son.
both of our parents were dead,
and I needed to tell someone — he,
however, seemed unimpressed.
I see this son now grown, bearded
and strong, busy planning their lives together,
as if such a thing were possible.
I can almost feel the life force drifting
like pollen from our branches to theirs,
calling forth small, green buds, the sap
beginning to rise.
the flowering crab in the yard
holds dark, withered fruit fermenting slowly
under a weak winter sun, when a solitary robin,
who should have gone south months ago,
brushes the snow from the branches
and gorges himself on the hard, bitter fruit.
eventually, he grows drunk, drops into flight,
and spinning once in midair, flies straight
into the darkened glass of the window,
then drops to the ground like a stone.
so many deaths
caused by mistaking reflections
for truth, by confusing images
with the unyielding surfaces of life.
the women tell me
there is soon to be a baby.
and we shall welcome her
with indescribable joy. we
will surely be impressed.
we will do our best
to hold her safe, to teach her to see.
we will stand with her by the window
and watch the comings and goings of birds.
perhaps, she will smile and laugh with the birds.
perhaps, with time, she will come to love
these hollow-boned, fragile,
exquisitely mortal, impossible birds.
perhaps, with time,
she might even be the one
who teaches us all how to fly.