for this moment I am blessed to know your mind and have your heart

A sparrow slams against the pane
with such a pounding-breakneck-thump
I think the picture window split
or cracked into a spider vein.
As often as we hear them hit,
we always shudder, flinch, or jump.
When birds collide with glass and die
they leave a little viscous smear,
but otherwise the view stays clear
that frames a square of trees and sky.

And you, my love, in this warm bed,
a sliver rippled through your blood.
You looked away and winced and yelped
and pressed your fingers into me

when startled by that beak-first thud.
You sorrow for whatever's dead
and dread our own fragility.
Our mortal natures can't be helped,
no more than birds that crash and fall,
mistaking windowpanes for air.
This present moment is our all,
our sliver of eternity.
There's just the now, this now we share
to jointly breathe and live and be.

The sunlight cuts a glaring line
where pleated curtains nearly meet.
A long white beam transects our feet
then angles sharply like a tine
and strikes a blank impassive wall.
Some trinkets on the dresser shine.
Outside the sparrows chirp and dart.
The rising day won't let us stall
much longer in our languid rest,
but for this moment I am blessed
to know your mind and have your heart
and feel your yielding flesh on mine.

[Richard Meyer {winner, Robert Frost Farm Prize, 2012}, 'This Morning', from Orbital Paths: Poems

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