And at the center,
this --

joy comes to us
like a bird out of
winter

blackcap chickadee
answers our call
in the middle of our
forest walk

our son, four,
holds a pink hand
outstretched in the 
cold
his glove off
so he can balance
the seeds we carry
in his palm

late afternoon
his breath comes
in small puffs
white against the trees

we watch him 
glow among the crystals
falling

and the little bird
looks on
from the branch

he has always been there
holding back the shadows

he flutters
to our son
sits on his hand
light
in this dark
woods
and our son 
calls "Look!"

Snow melts on
our cheeks like
tears
of joy

and the bird sits
still
and sings
in this moment.


by Joan Strong