by Mirjam Frosth
Is it warm there yet?
I wonder if you miss me up and down
the flocked bluffs of your hiding place.
I’m sure come April the grass will start.
Are the hermit thrushes with you?
You took the night-singing from all the trees.
My velvet dress tore. I sewed it together
with good thread and tiny stitches.
Your cardinal doesn’t chirp at the feeder.
He doesn’t eat. He only looks.
The days pile. They’re dust in the curtains.
I shake them out when they collect.
UGGLOR I MOSSEN
We watched their winding necks
and yellow eyes as they gathered
along the branches behind the hospital.
You said, It’s some omen.
They’re here to collect.
I didn’t know that language from you.
We sat up into early morning with the birds.
A phone rang. They left all at once.
Published on August 13, 2020