Ruffed Grouse Beneath the Picture Window
You who made these wings
and formed such whirls
and patterns,
perhaps you save in some drawer
the design of brush and pen,
the draft and erasures
that formed the hollow bones.
I choose to think,
as one who writes, you keep it all,
that nothing of what you made
is wasted. Perhaps the wind
that lifts the zippered harmonies
is just your breath, blowing
this bird to life again in some
other place. Perhaps, you take
it there and hold it in your hand
then release it to fly, no longer
broken-winged, and then again
being abundant in all you do,
lavish in color, plan,
you may begin again
with no less laughter,
fashioning fingerprints
and fronds in joy,
fashioning another song,
whistling as you work,
hands all red with clay.
Sue Scalf
http://www.members.aol.com/poetscalf
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