I own nothing of you
nor this leaf that shivers
into a half-bud above
the phlox and blue flax
that burrow with me
into this old winter grass.
Yet how much I yearn
for your blue-struck wing
like an arrow over a sun-
struck river, as if it were some
prayer to fit between
my strange and lonely palm,
so hollow its feathers,
so frail I could breathe through them,
so iridescent the sky
you harbor down that
whoever hammered this wood
together did so
in such hurry, in such
love, that even the nails
were left unflattened. And now,
here, your nestling waits
at this world someone
cored into the box for it
to see: a little
knot of light,
a song
to dip and break against.
Poem by Kathryn Winograd
Kathryn Winograd is a poet and essayist. She has published two collections of lyric essays and one collection of poetry, which won the Colorado Book Award for Poetry. Her poetry has received three Pushcart Prize nominations and a Special Mention in Pushcart Prize XXXVIII. She teaches creative nonfiction and poetry for the Regis University’s Mile High MFA program.