by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
A place that claims you: home.
Keeper of all bespoken
in me, all my
hands have sewn.
What does the wary crow
carry in its feathered heart?
I can hold many a thing in my hands,
including a compass,
but the heart points home.
Gives time a pulse.
A bird could weave a sturdier nest,
wouldn’t over-analyze.
It’s made up, a family,
of those who share a private language.
Nothing is hands-off
for the little beaks.
Bare tree in the winter yard.
Crow, that’s your winged family
perched on brittle branches
in need of pruning.
Like so much along the way,
failed by these hands.
Build our keep of twigs,
of feathers, of hands—
what will suffice?
Some things are better left
unspoken. Fly away home,
where we start and end.
