something flown

                               Nothing wants to be itself
                                    for long:     winter loosens hold
                      drips off soffit    eave    branch   
                                                  seeps into stone’s creases
                                 and the pond transluces—     

                                 its language rising from its throat     
                           in an upseep—      a reverse kind of weeping
                                                            (What is the Inuit word for ice        
                                                              that buckles under your weight
                                                                          but doesn’t break?)      

 And it is here I flushed a bird from the story
                                            of a pine
                                                         like a pale hand     a hand-
                                     kerchief      crying as it flew—
                                                       one note for every wingbeat

                               Dove  I said  

                                                What I meant was    daughter
                                 you’ll be alright       I meant
                                          child   come take my hand
                                I should have said        break my heart         
                                                   I should have said      world

title poem from Patty's book-length chapbook,
winner of the 2017 Concrete Wolf Chapbook Award