Fledgling Song
Snow hit like a wind chime.
Wildness building a nest
in soprano tones, this arctic
woven from the silk of kimonos,
the father of the crane,
bearing red fruit
in his beak for his young.
The way i can’t sleep anymore.
The night whispers to me
fledgling songs:
for the first time
my wish, to stay.
Who needs to be big and strong
to make this flight across the universe?
I’ve grown feathers.
They’ve already made me wild.
My wish, for rest.
The arc of ice frozen branches
in the white moss forest,
cradles where once
I was afraid to walk in the dark
of the winter snows.
It’s now in the knowing.
There’s a seedling hidden
in the mouths
of the winter slumber
of tree animals.
There’s an opening in the fields and flowers,
and here I am standing in the center of it.