Almanac Stroll

I want to grasp your thumb in my whole
hand. I want someone to see me,
loved. I want to know whose hair 
forms the nests of the newly hatched 
birds, and if their mothers once 
washed it in a kitchen
sink, each pair young and
hungry and loved.

I want to make a bowl. I want it balanced
on my crown. I want to know if the mud
would take a wheel or the mold
of a brick, and what the brick
would make of a window, shuttered
with green summer
lush.

I want to halve a wild fig. I want to cradle
its wasp in my hands. I want to know
if the lost wings of the egg laying
mother still sound, and if so, how
softly they echo the puddling
rain. How slowly they open
and close.

For a brief moment
the street lamp illuminates snow
fall. It escapes the circle 
of light and is replaced 
by itself.

I want to be the subject of a halo.

I want to be the subject.

I want to be the halo.

Elizabeth Fierro