When the birds were singing that last morning
I lost bits
of my heart
in a corner of your garden
where small yellow flowers are blooming
and behind a photograph of your boy
in your study
a small bit
jumped on the coat rack
as you enter the house
fluttering in the evening breeze
and on the kitchen window sill
near the cinnamon, looking up at your colored lights
the blinds
in your bedroom
contain assorted pieces
flown there when the birds were singing that last morning
yearning so to stay with birdsong and with sun
if your own
heart is heavier than usual
some of my own heart is attached
and would not come with me.
The 2River View, 3_4 (Summer 1999)