A couple of days in and the wing feathers
are already bedraggled; the weather
is strangely warm when it should have been cold
- summer in winter. The year is just days old.
Somewhere the light’s dying. Somewhere icy winds
have knifed trees. More grace than can be imagined
even in the unkempt, in the shady light -
the rims of hope and grace are seldom watertight.
The anglers are gone, the fishing boats are back,
sun’s in its rightful place in the zodiac.
Waiting for the bones to move a bit less smooth
the flesh to peel away and reveal the truth –
that feathers, shaggy or not, knifed trees and all
remain beautiful however the light falls.