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.