Bluebirds
In the small grey hut of self-doubt where the ceilings are too low for you to stand,
by the road where your friend would only drive you half-way home,
next to the trench of holes filled with grief and wrong choices,
where it's better not to know how you should do things a different way,
tulips droop from their vases,
and death has never had so many faces.
That's the time to go out at dusk when even the deaf talk softly;
Don't look at the hummingbird hovering
afraid of the bubbles rising in their nectar -
Bluebirds know of danger, their air made of smoke -
large wings of prey
never far distant -
Try to find the bluebirds in their church of air,
star seeds of sound that crystallize then burst.
© Grace Cavalieri, all rights reserved
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