TRUE BIRD POEM

It's like that thing that thing with the bird,
salt on a bird's tail thing, the wanting,
yearning, reaching of the soul towards
what speaks in song, what moves like idea.
As if held in hand, if felt, if known, bird
could make it all okay. This risen kin,
at home in endless air, if it were possible
to hold it, to feel it, the softness that it must be,
warmer more alive up close than imagined,
Would make it all okay would make it feel
safe would make it good would make it good
enough. But like bird, that thingless thing
to make me okay make me safe make
me good, It flies more quickly than thought
so before I mark its shape or
weight or how it moves it is gone.
And I am left, empty hands
like barren nests, not grasping
what is salt, what is bird,
what can be known and held.
How do birds know the way home,
where their sky begins and ends?
Does this thing wait with me for birds,
truth alive in breath released.
Is it drawn to tears, to broken glass?

Or will it rest with me if I am still?