thanksgiving

these farewell tears are thanks for this,
a friendship like a feast you never finish.

the bitter courses, the rich, the sweet
made by our hands over and over.

gathered around the table, we pass the plates.

i made this for you, we say.
i made this for you.

This morning in the subway 
a feather whirled on the floor

in tight counterclockwise circles that moved it down the car.

We were all watching -- 
an Asian man with polished shoes

moved them to let it pass.

“There’s life in you yet,” I thought, picturing the bird from which it came.

But was there ever, really?

Is there life in our hair, our nails, our skin?

How many layers must you peel away to reach what’s truly living --

is it the heart, or the blood,

or the ceaseless tide-rush of air in the lungs?

No. All these are just containers for the nameless, urgent thing

that leaves the birdcage of the body

so silent

when it takes wing.

late winter

yesterday i was walking with a friend in the cold
deep in the kind of conversation that absorbs you completely
and yet can’t be recalled the next day

we were passing an old woman who looked up and cried out

“it’s so light!”

and to me
who claims to suffer all the winter months from darkness
it was like her words lit up the sky

was the light even there before she spoke it?

or must things be named
before they reach my eye?