I almost never know where a poem's images will take me when I first sit down with pen and paper. Writing poetry is a mysterious process of alchemy, of transformation. And it isn't until I finish a piece that its meaning comes thundering through me. This is still a draft and may undergo change, but then again, aren't we all still drafts? Still in the process of change? We are all pinions primed for flight.
"I believe that the broken bird knew that it was broken." (Kristina Chew)
This is not a poem about broken things
or crows. That black bird is only fear
huddled against the base of my spine.
I am a killdeer pretending to limp,
leading danger away from my nest.
Sometimes I envy the mockingbird.
I sing the song I know best. It is not
always beautiful, but it soothes
us both to sleep. In the morning
a dark feather spirals to my feet.
You look up through the screen
of trees, a pinion primed for flight.