Two weeks of warm, squashy, beating-heart silence,
trapped in an ever-shrinking space, unable to stand or stretch,
until finally I figure out what that egg tooth is for,
peck-peck-pecking until CRACK, the light pours in,
the blue sky winks through veiling green leaves,
a blue similar to my first cage, that shiny-broken bit of sky blue
falls with the rain, far below. And for the first time, my cold,
featherless wings tremble, my lungs fill with damp air,
my toes scrabble at the cup of twigs and grass, my second cage,
that scratchy-bumpy bit of earth brown, where Mother dozes.
Lodged between sky and earth, caged by birth, egg and nest,
coming feathers are growth-fire, an itchy-poke like newly-opened eyes,
but my wings won’t stop stretching and lifting, my heart pounding,
and I fix my new eyes on the winking sky through oak leaf-wings,
wishing we might take flight, if only the leaves will flap hard enough.
Copyright 2018 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes: Christie Wyman at Wondering and Wandering is hosting Poetry Friday, and she’s issued a bird poem challenge. My poem is about Robin Red-Breast, an American native who always has time to stop and wink when I pass.