for Amy Clampitt

I grew my hair out
        in a depression.  Let it knot
into a forum for the birds
        in my thoughts, sparked
into actuality

in the wee dark.  What wills them
        awake?  An early
sentry, then the rest
        beckoning?  Coordinates rising
when stars in the lifting night
        are falling.

        Letting them nest,
I felt their joy
        accumulate, until I was ugly
no longer, but a self divorced
        from a body:

        beach of grit
and sea glass, bit driftwood, God-
        forsaken ovaries, ashes
buried beneath a listing tree, decades
        of love, the burned,
uxorious husband.

Becoming the sleep
        of the sleigh bed, convinced
by a piccolo hither
        and flourish, bashful
and easeful notes, a bridge of love-
        making scoring sun
across earth again.   

Paula Bohince