Openness—
comes with age, loss, acceptance
that what finches find,
beak-blessed
beneath the boxwood
is enough.
Quiet too,
is just me growing down
to where silence
like Zen
leaves me speechless,
words: small
and reticent as a wren.
Less chatter
to perch on
at the feeder.
Hard to figure,
this country’s refusal
to land lightly as a linnet
in the sturdy nest
of wanting less.
The liftoff from self,
easier than we imagined:
the sound of one hand flapping,
or a turkey’s fanned hand
of winning cards—
a wingbeat, perhaps?
A koan?
