Nightingale

-force winds knock us loose from our moorings 
and we wander (wonder) in the waves awhile,

forsaking the dawn. The song. The way our wings
want to angle toward the sun. The fray of feathers

that no longer fly. There’s a rumble in my chest
that says this is all for (night) nought, breath caught

in cage of rib and hourglass ceiling. We’re stealing
moments now, unquiet storms of thundered thought

…………………………………..and long-remembered rain.

 

 

..
In November, we poem. 

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