I wrote some words today that will see print.

Maybe they will last “forever”—

that is, more than ten years, in that

someone will read them, their ink making

a light scratch on his mind, or hers.

I think back with greater satisfaction

upon a yellow bird—a goldfinch?—

that had flown into our potting shed

and could not get out,

battering its wings unintelligently

upon the dusty panes of the never-opened windows.

Without much reflection, for once, I stepped

to where its panicked heart

was making commotion, the flared wings drumming,

and with clumsy soft hands

pinned it against a pane,

held cupped this agitated essence of the air,

and through the open door released it,

like a self-flung ball,

to all that lovely perishing outdoors.