In trees, in crayon leaves, a box of autumn with a sharpener of birds.
How my eyes flew to them. How flocks of big-horned clouds were un-shepherded
like hope and went everywhere they shouldn’t be able to:
my hands, my belly, between my toes.
What a mountain goat autumn birds made of hope when I was six.
How feathers furthest away tickled me most.
How my classroom was a distant wing.
All this I kissed you with.
All this I know you miss.