Poetry – a poem by Helga Kidder

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. 

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