First draft 12 minutes, but I tumbled these words all night long
and came to write smooth stones as soon as I got up)
(Second draft, tweaked a few words based on suggestions from
writers in my prison writing group.)
So — for weeks we watched baby robins pop up their heads
open their beaks to mama feeding moths
and other winged things and bugs. Yesterday
a baby stood up, wobbly legs, and
inched out onto the flat part of the downspout,
look down, flapped a wing, winged things already
in her bloodstream, flutter of flight,
air currents; mama was in the nearby maple,
chirping, her baby backed back into the nest.
I went to my workshop to teach fledging students
how feelings take flight with words, can soar,
birth emotions on our up-sweeping heart’s breath.
Returning home, the nest is empty. And I can only imagine
that first spread of wings, that downward headlong fall, gasp,
then grace of upswing, elation of flight. First love with
air currents, breathing in words. My own as well.