I comb through the familiar
knots at the nape of my neck
and trill my fingers in the wind,
goodbying every blond strand,
wishing them anew,
and ruminating on this season
that begins with a wooly blanket of fog
and ends with a pink veil of sunlight—
a season where I wonder if it’s spring or fall—
I live so close to that veil.
I imagine a bird—a wren afresh
into nesting, gathering one invisible strand
of blond in its beak, flying to its knobby perch,
and weaving the strand through twigs,
clay mud, and color-leeched leaves.
If I cannot rebuild with what I relinquish,
I reckon you, wren, are readying your nest
with a restless joy.
