Snow Bird Poem by Ben Partenay

How will the bird come back,
fix the feathers, it’s getting
cold out, there’s ice in the bones.
The child is pacing inside of me.

This cold is a promise as good
as a word, a shake of the hand
that sits and rots inside you.
Your soul is but a whisper now.

It is a nothing to hear a promise
let it become a faith, a tiny flower
buried in snow, the bird
still sitting on the windowsill.

It was a blind face that saw
the bird fly, deafness fled with
a pair of wings, a heart left numb
was clawing at the pane of glass.

She’ll be back if the winds
are right and the weather’s warm
enough for the taking. I am without
A word for saying, “promise me”.