Tuesday, February 15, 2011

A Pile of Blankets

A pile of blankets,
quilts all heaped together in my daughters' favorite colors.
I see them on their beds when they are playing in the yard.
I miss their small bodies suddenly, and their smells.
I long to see their belly buttons, and put my face in their warm necks.
But I don't want the chaos,
the blankets will have to be enough, a vessel for heat and odors,
I run my hands along the edges and over the folds, and inside them.
I expect their hotness and respiration to translate,
But the spaces of the blanket, all the spaces, are cold on my fingertips.
The girls are just outside.

Precious things.

Precious is small.
Like something that can be held in one hand.
Or two hands cupped together,
one hanging back, behind,
holding the baby bird.
When the bird is precious
it is plump and blue
all swollen breast and
fluorescent orange beak. 
It does not have bugging eyes
or strangled wings
and when it cries for food
crushed up worms are
always waiting
in a neighboring hand
(its pair waiting to stroke beneath the blue chin)
and the bird can be sated.
Precious things
but they are too easily satiable.
They cry out in pain, but submit to
bandages and healing.
The are held and never take off in angry flight,
until they do.