S een it before, I have, below the roots of the black walnut tree.
U nderneath the core of the frozen white rain, I could
N ever fully understood what it was doing growing there
R ising like fresh dough inside a forgotten rust covered pan
I t couldn't be held or stopped or erased, this I remember, but you could
S ugar it with hope and watch its dried-up leaves bloom again --
E nglish tea brewing, a queen's idea of wild Kenyan caffeine, it
C an never be replaced or changed or reasoned by the grit of the newborn's cry.
A nd it can't be pushed or pulled or kneaded inside this rusted out pan.
L et it tell its own story by watching the plain brown wren.
L oafing at the ground, she’ll pick and choose just the right time to lift her wings.
I t can be heard through her feathered ears, in the rhythm of her own heart’s beat.
N ever doubting she will fly again, never wanting her color to be the robin’s red
G one before the cold wind pushes at her back, her nest is built, the day ends, then begins.