when your yellow bird turns blue
When you build a new life
tall and alone, unbent,
and the old one claws
itself up out of the soil
how far can you walk
with two sprained ankles
on your bleeding soles?
When you've built nest
after nest after nest,
and the birds pull it to bits
eat, crush, steal your eggs,
then wonder why there's
no place to sleep at night,
all that's left is to migrate again.
When you round the summit
sore now but stronger,
and strings in your heart
pull you halfway back down
how many nights will you travel
freezing and blistered
for the gamble of a new day?
Death and destruction and earth
crumbling beneath your feet,
leave. Leave. Stop rebuilding
and run.