If,
the blackbirds after furious night and her wind’ s frenzied ruinings can instead of to my door collapse crying, reclaim that which detached from the spines of birch and pines, stubborn to nature cruel, or fate, rebuild their humble home,
if, the great sea, so possessed by the shore can to the moon hold no more fury than to be wild, and rather praise tide for what cherished time her enamored soul can spend entwined with cliff-side, who with each wave wears to hold her closer,
if, the newborn can with first touch of light let from lungs miniature one first cry and learn, alone, to breathe what is not their mother’ s, then perhaps I too can learn how to breathe what is not shared between our rising, falling chests, perhaps, I
will forget.
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