Accidental Birds

Deborah Howard

Let’s meet beyond the ticking of clocks

where the river flows over smooth stone

and wildflowers lace the muddy banks.

I will come over the stone wall,

knees bloodied from scrambling

across sharp-tongued granite.

You will walk out of the forest,

a canoe hefted on your shoulders,

past deer silent on fallen leaves,

smelling of rot and redemption.

There will be a vagueness to your face,

no more than a trick of light.

You will not remember

the snow that fell in oceanic drifts

outside the window

where your bed was moored,

the small hurts

or the last

when everything went on

as if it wasn’t so.

We’ll spread a blanket on the grass,

eat handfuls of honey,

watch the clouds swim through the sky.

I will ask who received you

and if they spoke with the voices of lost stars.

You will gather accidental birds in your arms-

the western grebe, the snowy egret,

the red throated loon.

You will whisper to them,

tell them how to find their way

by the green jeweled moss that grows

on the north side of the trees

and the position of the sun.

This time

I will listen.