the wooden birds on the wall
are nothing
like the soft whisps of air on my skin
on that quiet, northwoods morning
when everything we held
was wonder
and the kids broke the thin spring ice
to prod at tadpoles
shaped like their own clouds of breath
her pink cheeks flushed
his blond curls bouncing
until the frost closed in
again
and our wonder grip hardened
into strips of mahogany and ash
fibers sick with nostalgia
from too many winters
perched on the bedroom wall
but we picked them up
again
the gentle touch of memory
like feathers in our palms
From the prompt "sick with nostalgia" by @eliasthepoet.
Comments