this is the treasure we seek:
wings out of tune with the world
& names to be swallowed like berries,
dark forest stains on the fingers.
oh to have forest stains on these fingers
this is the treasure we hold:
the forest has always been here.
~
and here, i was a weary wanderer
and my fire held no magic, we were no wild things, we watched
as the silence picked up our broken pieces to examine
while we could not break it in return,
wisdom in vain.
now, i keep a jar of ashes.
let me place it
gently next to your pillow, a touch and a whisper,
a gift for good dreams. i still remember
the should have been beauty and the beauty that was.
and now, sometimes,
i am a robin.
(as wild as the city lets anything be,
not fearing fences, not finding the open sky
but baptised by the moon between pines.)