Sunday, October 22, 2006

All day Sunday I cut out hearts, snipped
from yellowed pages of Russian fairytales
and The Book of the Dead. I gave them wings-
some silver, some black, others fashioned
from glittered tulle, spread like tiny banners
of possibility. On my table a pile of hearts
grows like petals dropped on a still day.
I give them names, like Gypsy and Always.

From my window I see the red oak shiver
off her bright confetti and a gust of geese
lifts up into the gallant, streaked sunset.
I have made too many winged hearts.
They suffer under the weight of one another.
I pick one and slip it out the window.
I do not watch it flutter or ride the chill
air that brings the silent moon.

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