flies around my kitchen
flirts with the heat of the range,
finds neither shrub nor flowering vine:
I knead the bread,
stir the soup,
avoid the brush of his wings,
until my daughter grabs
a cup, napkin,
scoops and seals him,
opens the kitchen door
and releases him
outdoors
where he abandons warm air,
lights on a boxwood,
sinks into ever shorter days.
By Connie Jordan Green
Connie Jordan Green’s work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. She is the author of two novels for young people; two poetry chapbooks; two poetry collections, Household Inventory, winner of Brick Road Poetry’s 2013 Prize, and most recently, Darwin’s Breath, published by Iris Press. Learn more at: www.conniejordangreen.com