This is not me

It is the poem
Which grasps for affinity
With the world 
I see unfinished,
Remaking, renewing, 
Hungering,
Like the two chickadees 
Who tirelessly
Leave and return, 
Seeds clasped 
In their black beaks
To fill the bellies 
Of their blind young, 
All wet feathers 
And mouths
And bellies, 
Yet to grow wings for flight, 
Only wisps for feebly 
Flapping for more.
In my unfinished 
Making
I always believe 
I’ve arrived at the end, 
That I’ve found
The answer at last, 
Only to be teased
By the tulip poplar who keeps
Planting seeds, branching leaves. 
I arrive 
At the beginning 
Of something else, 
Some new piece of me
That has only begun 
To emerge.
Even death 
Holds the beginning as worms, 
Who eat my flesh, 
Are eaten by birds 
Who lift their wings 
To the sky and I 
Become wings
I become
Air



Narya Deckard

Narya Deckard is an Appalachian poet who feels most at home with grass beneath her feet, a tree above her head, and a book in her hands. She is inspired by fairies, her cats and dog, her endlessly surprising husband, her garden, and coffee.