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