The Bird and the Stone

The bird followed the stone into the ground
She loved him. She thrilled him with songs of flight
Her small head rested on his round back. Her
wing brushed his heart. Together they would heave

and sink. Together, listen to the soft lives
of toads and worms. He was her cottage, she
was his nest. They lived in a generosity
of roots. They plunked memories down in neat

cemetery rows, epitaph after epitaph.
The winter the stone died, the bird shook
the dirt from her wings and laid him
at the bottom of an icy creek. She

hopped on the snowy bank
and watched him shine

The Icicle

In the depths of winter
the snow finally became an icicle

Her lifelong dream, to grow by melting
to be clear in her intentions

to stretch thinly from a fat start
wield a formidable spike

to overhang the bareheaded
walking in and out of doors

and silently threaten

In the deep freeze of winter
she perched and hung heavily

gusty winds trembled her length
Complacent in her mass she blinked

slowly, blank with certainty. Everything
would happen: the bright shine

and steady drip, the slow loosening
the sun’s hot gaze, her perfect

daring leap, the jarring crash