Every year, it seems

I fly a bit more.

The wings brittle,

feathery.

maybe even a formation,

part of the ether

to someone looking

up from below.

A kind of

moving shadow.

Someday I won't return

even in spring.

There won't be

a nest to build, twigs,

berries, or earth.

See how I swoop

with my heavy body

now lighter than

a poem

whispering in wind,

a near ghost.

Seeds, first steps,

glint in the eye,

the way you turn to me

although a stranger

in the grocery aisle.

Some storms, elections,

a newly replaced battery,

birthday card with a check

from a sad relative.

A corpse on display

for the grieving family,

a chair for the tired

foreign language

on tour with friends,

art display on Tuesday,

amaryllis in a corner pot,

a recipe for six,

round glass of wine,

this conversation,

your staying

here with me.

Who would have thought

I would not be gone?

The gods of chemotherapy

determined otherwise

and this body still

wakes and dances and loves

like the newly reborn

I stubbornly am.

To be sure, there was

the bald head, blood oozing

from stomach and mouth

and ass, nerve endings

like hotwires on fire

and a frame thin as a leaf.

But who can deny

a semi-miracle

that beggars all odds?

A story worth telling

and a survival

that sings

to the roof-tops

and trembles the air.