Watching the weather come in

through breaking light,

February flowering trees moving

below with the wind,

I can’t recall the bird I heard last night.

Sleep dropped hard–thank god–and

dreams of a friendly pockmarked face

and who he was.

I’m small here beneath swirling sky,

flea to the breathing animal I try

to rest upon.

I’ve no idea what’s coming.

Somehow, with birth arrived a tossing of

security

for a life that wouldn’t crush my soul.

I know no other way.

And don’t think I want to.