Birds

I wrote some words but the sheet was consumed
by the wind, a paper bird caught in a gale.
But I have the words, the thousand nestlings
that now silently gape, bereft of their mother.

Those are words that bear meaning too heavy
for their stroked bodies. So now they will buckle and die,
hungry and gaping, but their spirits will remain,
resting in my memories, and haunting my words.

These ghosts trail like phantom ducklings behind me,
but I will lose them one by one, the pain of loss expected and sharp,
and slowly, carefully, I will set them to forgetfulness,
birds born in the palm of my human hand learning to fly into the clouds.