Poetry You were made to do hard things, open the door to birch leaves covering the porch with a gold carpet, to tiny feathers left in the bird bath. You may be clinging to a brittle branch before it falls on me. There is no chart or list to mark off, to allow a breather. I know walls won’t protect you when the wind spins like a dreidl through the woods. It may whirl you against the trunk of trees, flatten you against rocks. But this is not your only home. When I look up, I see you in a sliver of moon gliding between stars, lighting the Milky Way or some other universe that fills in where you’ve been to keep me whole.
Helga Kidder lives in the Tennessee hills. Her poems have appeared in Silver Blade, Trouvaille Review, and others. She has four collections of poetry, Wild Plums, Luckier than the Stars, Blackberry Winter, and Loving the Dead which won the Blue Light Press Book Award in 2020.