Two Birds

Poetry. Self-Care.

Photo by Zoha Gohar on Unsplash

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Two birds were dried leaves in the wind.

They hung over a roof pouring out undrunk dreams

from the sky. Sometimes, a place won’t let you stay.

You have to fly toward a new light that holds



a little warmth. Over time, a beak might turn

into a loaded-lip. Words follow their tails and get dizzy.

It takes strength and courage to not get eaten

by the trimmed beards of wolves and coyotes.



When you survive, you can cut with steady and straight 

shears to shaded grasses, mushrooms, and mosses to heal

from the year’s nicks and scratches as you learn dreams 

are more than specks of dust on the back of your tears.