https://blueheronreview.com/bhr-issue-18-spring-2024/
The years are rapt birds,
trilling their delight,
no salt on their tongues
no weights on their wings,
no rambunctious expletives
in their voices,
not a single lofty sermon, only
the width of stars in their throats.
My throat is a winding river,
where words carry me
into the sanctity of all
that flows no matter flood or drought.
I’ve learned to listen with my mouth.
To make words with wings.
To carry myself without fear of what’s ahead.