Commotion of Birds

I am the split-second silence
of the last sparrow’s tongue—
sweet with sap
and the mystery of how
morning rain
falls 
     between 
                   oak 
                        branches. 

My blood is the rusty beat of
woodpecker madness,
drilling
hope
deep
into the veins of spring-rushed spruce,
your throat pale and waiting.

My arms are falcon’s wings—wind wild,
rumpled soft and strong.
I find my child
buried
beneath the first frost
at the foot of the dogwood,
green eyes dark with forgiveness. 

Let me hoist you
to the rosehip of my heart,
press you
to the curve of robin redbreast,
hide you
in the shadow of a thousand hummingbirds.

My song is whispered lark,
is the third rooster,
is a brooding dove—
ready,
always ready.