Stork
       

Vows broken like bird bones. You spanned abyss intention
with flight, made that leap into glide

into not-faith. Or was it flat-spin oblivion that hurled you
towards Circe, her shining whetstone

honing the wishbone you'd left behind, the hope you'd
ever come home? You crash-landed

in shatter and grit, matted tuft and thirst. The years ground
down golden and slow, sand

in the mouth of a cove combed by waves. Now you are old,
and the sea withdraws her tide, gently terrible,

your foothold in quicksand, knee-deep in what once
was an isthmus. The neap tide

has passed with the autumn migration, leaving you mute;
even Christmas has forgotten your name.

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Copyright © 2012 Rebecca Foust All rights reserved
from Fourteen Hills
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission