a fortnight ago, my son nudged his mother out the door
for a walk to the places, that,
smelled of rain just the day before

the poet came along, as always
looking for birds
hunting for words

the smell of a caged budgie lingered as
I took pictures of the bare willow branches
against the last storm clouds
the warmth after a December storm
made me loosen my shawl

the artist picked up a stone and put it in her pocket
only to marvel at it again as it slipped out
on the soft and gray bed sheets
when I was a lover at noon

I was a knitting poet, versing
with all the different sparrows for company
the last storm light was caught softly in their plumage
the mother was called back as my son awoke from his nap

one may think that I must feel split
by not being just one thing at any given time

but doesn’t it make me whole
when I am everything at once?