the sun has now arrived
where it intended
before our knowing knew
knowing
 
chickadees house hunting
outside my living room
they must be compatible
look at them go
 
on the other side of the glass
i’m still searching for love
near spring’s last morning fire
wondering about lunch
                        

i often think it loud
yet keep it quiet
since it’s a non-starter
though i don’t really know 
or understand why
 
she lost her life-lover
he died so much younger
refusing all treatment
blind to their needs
to grow grief
 
she’s the mother to twins
sons forty and counting
one called her a whore
while his father was silent
reminds me of mine
 
I follow her movements
her words as they gentle
uncontained kindness
it flows to the river
where she sits on a boulder
 
she’s a new kind of angel
full of passion to bursting
she gives away money
to convicts and homeless
without saying prayers
 
I speak to her daily
whether she knows it or doesn’t
I’m her official historian
I record her in poems
they arrive in odd moments
after stillness and air