Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—

and the limpid silence in between is a braid
that proves there is no difference: there is pain
anywhere, and there are brief moments made
of flame. You feed me soup or bread, then
kiss the tips of my fingers. And yes, I am afraid
when the wind’s dark voices warn that we won’t finish
what we started— Ardent love, wild hope: don’t vanish.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.