you don’t watch the finch break
its neck only to scold its still body.
you don’t gather it, tiny and hushed,
only to berate its silent face for foolishness.
no, you take on its softness,
cup your palms against the wind. you slow the
world down, even if only for a split atom
of a moment, to take in the sight of this
why, then, do you treat your
own heart this way? so quick
to shame your winged creature
for its risks and its devastations,
when it needs you most
to just be soft, and hold it.