Little can I bear to be parted
from crisp air’s edge
and light that has first passed
The way of the chickadee
(do you know this?)
and the dry scrape of skidding leaves
and the fleeting heat of sun between clouds.
The damp is seeping into my sweatshirt
and a passerby might think
that I’d fallen on my lawn, in trouble
but no, trouble led me to starfish here.
Days in my bed, but at peril to our heating bill
I cracked the window open
I reached my hand out to touch the snowflakes
I wanted the air that is alive.
How many lay abed, wondering
if a contagion from so far away
has nestled within their own bodies
or if it is a domestic invader, a routine bug.
I fill my lungs, testing them, and drink
with an eye towards the window
toward the chickadee handing upside down
from my window pane, inspecting.