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”.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
sweet topic, Ben. So sensitive and perceptive, you balance the two perfectly. best care xx sjg