The hawthorn tree had one cardinal,
sharping the sky like scissors when
I went out to get the morning paper.
On the walkway, there are always
stray rubber bands, clean enough
that a person picking them up could
be seen as only slightly cracked.
Everything is a gift if you choose
to receive it. I don’t really believe that,
but never mind. The moth that flew up
to my window and died, its husk
still stuck there after all these months.
Clouds drift by. If you wait long enough,
there’s that blue sky again. Remember?
