Though you’ve triedto fit intoa thousandsmall boxes,perhaps comesthe day whenyou’re openedby grief or bylove, and yourthoughts unstitchfrom what you knew,and your mindbegins to rhymewith sky, becomesspacious enoughwhole flocksof bluebirdscan fly rightthrough, andfor a time youstop tryingto make senseof things, yousimply yieldto beinga home forthe ecstasyof wings.
