the way Oma taught us, we are all partly made of snow.
We steal the sky’s aimless black, nest in the great wind
that lifts our hair. When we bruise
the pine needles they scent our trail. Heaven no longer
brims over the edges of our boots or collars. Listen,
Breathless Bird, the insects are pulling their dreams
down from the attics of dirt they’ve burrowed into,
some have found the bags of millet in the pantry,
we’ll have to fill the feeders.
At times I cannot distinguish flying from the wind,
the cold caress against my face. Painted Bird,
we’ve been domesticated, believe too strongly
in our debt to dark water which watches us all
while lying on its back—it knows we can no longer fly
without first being thrown.
Jessica Plante is formerly a Poetry Editor of The Greensboro Review. Her book reviews, interviews, and poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in the American Poetry Journal, Birdfeast, Crab Orchard Review, The Collagist, Saw Palm Review, StorySouth, Tirage Monthly, and Writer’s Bloc. She is the founder of the website mfadraftsessions.com which she maintains from Tallahassee, Florida.
Artwork: Alexandra Dawe, “On Silent Wings.”