Living

Hear the rainstick rush of elm seeds
seeking a soft place to begin the pain of living.

The red-winged blackbird calls You’re a lot like me.
The tender reed his cord and he the sleeving.

My daughter believes movies are real.
She has a hunch where all the dinosaurs are living.

Phone cords under the bed make me think terminal.
Lines drawn between the live and leaving.

I remember. I remember when you were never born.
Still. What if you are among the living?

I keep my window open, despite the wind.
My wings are wide enough for you to live in.