Lizzy Burnam 🐞

She collects words and rocks 
them in her arms like a mother would her baby:
Sallow, nighthawk, and serendipity. 
She presses her cheek against the window. 
The sun beckons, 
the cloud of heat both soft
and heavy at the same time. 
She wafts 
into her socks and snow boots, tying 
first the left, then the right laces. 
She reminds herself 
to keep her heart always open. 
Outside, she looks for omens 
like a half-moon in blue sky 
or robins weaving ribbons in a nest. 
She kicks blocks of ice down the sidewalk 
until they break into dust. 
She grins. She asks 
herself questions just to hear 
them echo in the cathedral of her mind: 
When you enter a poem, who speaks
through the mouthpiece? 
How come squirrels wonder where 
and corvids wonder why? 
If Sunday were forever, 
what would stillness feel like?