One of Those Days

To pick up a dead hawk

From the side of the road

And sing her into the next ~

To swallow the clouds

As nourishment, as a way

To remember the outside-in ~

To abide, only, by one's sense

Of trust; eyes closed,

Guided by spring’s offerings ~

To understand the ritual

Of becoming as unfinished,

As uncertain, as quiet, then loud,

Then questioned, then known,

Then, unknown. The ground holds,

And holds, and holds, you,

Throat still singing,

Feathers having fallen —

Some to wind, some to dirt, some ~

Holds and holds you,

You are here,

And here will change,

And you’re still held, changing.