a journal of fantastical poetry

Little Tiny’s Swallow

by Sarah Page

Winter-struck, the bird is mostly dead,
But so am I—

Buried under earth with my frostbitten dreams
Of free blue airs shriveled deep inside me
Like so many withered summer clovers.

A mole's hole fits my little tiny hopes perfectly
(No breath of sun shall ever reach me here).

But if I can spark the swallow's meager warmth, perhaps
My shade-bound heart can share something of its wings
When I set its feathered fleetness wild come spring.

March 25th, 2015

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