by kelli russell agodon
In perfect middleness,
in the winter of waxwings
and imperfect feathers, lost
friends—
we are not leaving
our nest. Like others
who aren’t entwined
in the honeysuckle, in the blackberry
vines, we stay knotted.
Like clouds refusing to be part
of the mushroom, we rained.
We loved our curves
and our appetite
for showers. Don’t get me wrong,
our mistakes have flooded
the valley, flooded
our blue farmhouse until
the living room was underwater.
Praise the trees and chairs
we climbed to stay dry,
not the wings
that might have brought us here,
but the round bellies
of birds hopping through
puddles, not beautiful,
but full, complete
with their berry-stained beaks.