Bird Houses
I pull things apart like string cheese;
the tiniest of pieces pulled from something
that was once whole. Trying to make
something out of something else like
if I can’t find the solutions to all my
problems, maybe I can make a bird house
out of them instead. Maybe I could paint
it and leave it out by the oak tree.
Maybe blue birds will find it worthy
of laying eggs; comfort and a new song.
I lay in the field and imagine being
back in New York City. Back in the
noise. I pull the thoughts from my
mind and dissect them; cut them
open with a scalpel and try to figure
out the “whys” of it all and all I can
come up with is “the quiet is too quiet.”
All I can come up with is, “I need
to be apart of something bigger.”
All I can come up with is, “I think
I belong somewhere else.”
Rebecca DeFazio