I want to be birdsong, carried
on the wind to my lover—
through the open window,
while he’s changing the sheets.
Maybe the dogwood tree will carry me
on her shed petals to wherever I go
from here, until I learn
not to fight the direction of the breeze.
To the daffodils
growing in my neighbor’s patch of grass,
lend me your patience to make it
to spring.
The Rummy Writer 