by Kathryn Kirkpatrick
Because she is ancient
and winged, her whole body
perched and dappled, legs
fading into the trunk of a tree
who will understand her?
She could as easily rise
toward the daunted sky
as send roots into the willing earth.
Who will value such scope,
such ambiguity, however fertile?
She must be woman or bird or tree.
She cannot be all three.
Torso slim against a giant moon,
wingtips arcing the sun’s yolk,
she is pure possibility
at that moment before
category.
