I thought for a while
I wouldn’t be here today,
with so much in my empty mind
needing more sleep than talk,

but then a little bird broke
its beak on my window,
jarring me awake, believing
the hawthorn will bloom again

next year, and thus, in memory
of all the springs I’ve known,
all the poppies broken out
of their porcelain shells

I think I’ll try again,
between the dishes and shirts,
persistent specks of dust,
and all who hate me,

to push my words out,
the way cherries swell in red,
and perhaps write some short
birdsongs for myself.